And We Run
by Nemo et Nihil
Summary: One year after the events that broke up the Avengers, Natasha Romanoff goes off to find Steve Rogers. She didn't realize how much it would change her life or the fate of the universe. [Post Civil War, Pre Infinity War]
1. And We Run

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _And we run, with a lonely heart; and we run, for this killing love; and we run, till the heavens above; yeah we run, running in the dark, and we run, till we fall apart; and we run, till the heavens above…_ _—_ _Within Temptation_

* * *

The tap squeaked as she turned it, the water gushing out ice cold. She dunked her head beneath the tap, sucking in a breath through her teeth as she washed the dye from her hair. Natasha rung her hair out, now a platinum blonde. It was unnerving to see her hair now a different color. She favored wigs for disguising her hair, but this time she needed to make it a little harder to remove. She snicked the razor blade out. "Bye-bye long hair," she said grabbing a fistful of hair, feeling a small pang. Steve had mentioned that he liked her hair long.

In a totally causal way. He was being nice. Sometimes that was his problem. He was nice and never acted upon what he wanted. She sawed off the hunk of hair at her chin, going around her head and then evening the edges with a pair of old scissors. " _La douleur exquise_ , as they would say in France." She chuckled, toweling her hair off. She ran her fingers through her silver hair. This was the price she paid for helping Steve, a fugitive, not once but twice. Steve had contacted her after whatever happened in Siberia, asked her if she was good at breaking into prisons. Clint had sent her an encrypted message from Steve a few months ago. A year since the Avengers broke up, a year since she let Steve do what he needed to do, a year since she last saw him in the shadowy passage-ways of that hellish floating prison.

Because she had to believe in something. Believe in what they were fighting for. Even though she agreed with Tony, feeling that there should be limits. She also sided with Steve. The Avengers were there to protect people and only they _truly_ knew how to protect the world from their abilities. _What is one life compared to the thousands saved?_ That was what they told her in the Red Room. To kill the repulsion of taking a human life. One life, to save thousands. A few hundred to save millions.

One lie to spare another.

Until you are drowning and no longer know which way is up or down, right or wrong, who to trust and who to fear. Until all you see is blood.

Natasha gasped, chest rising and falling. She wasn't that person anymore. She was different now. She had friends, people that cared about her, and hopefully one day… someone to love her.

 _He was standing there, at the end of the aisle, the stain glass light illuminating him but all she saw was his smile. That infectious smile that couldn't help but mirror itself on her own face. Her heart swelling with joy and hope and something different… peace. This was happening. She was getting married and soon she'll be Mrs. Natasha_ _—_

"Love is for fairytales," she said. The future was an ideal, something she'll keep lock in her heart to get through the crucibles that awaited her. She shoved her pistols into her thigh hostlers, the small ones in her ankle hostlers, and slipped her stilettos up her sleeve and capped off her gear with her stingers. She picked up her collapsible batons and tonfa, finally shrugging into a flexible bullet proof vest for extra measures. Steve wouldn't attack her nor Sam, but Wanda may just attack her if she snuck up on her. They had all changed since the fight at the airport, and she could tell there was something different about Steve when she met him on the Raft; a darkness simmering in his eyes, just beneath the surface, a crack in his faith in humanity.

She still couldn't believe it, that Zemo did everything to just destroy the Avengers from within. Sometimes she thought it was for the best. She once believed in Shield, but they became infested with Hydra and the only way to save Shield was to destroy it. Maybe that was the same way with the Avengers. Forest fires bring new life to a ravaged forest. Somehow, she didn't think this was the case. The tap gave a protesting squeak as she turned the knob into the off position, gathered the hair supplies and her old clothes and other needless things into a trashcan and set it on fire before escaping out the bathroom window.

* * *

The Ukrainian night was chilly, and the city was small compared to other places she been too. She also wanted to sneer as Ukrainian bombarded her hearing. It was similar to Russian but slightly different, and she couldn't help but hold a little bit of pride for her mother tongue. Even if she hated what the Kremlin did to her, made her into. Plus, Clint said this was where Steve was laying low. "Now where to find a super soldier on the run?" she mused to herself as she shrugged into a jacket she picked up from a store front along her walk. This part of the city was known for being rough, nobody was going to stop.

The neon lights flashed, the name of the club was Night Butterfly. Clint didn't tell her anything beyond the city where she _may_ find Steve. And when you work with someone for years, they tend to pick up things. Steve may not be the spy she is, but she taught him a few tricks and he had street smarts from his youth. She smiled at the bouncer and the burly man held out his arm. "Sorry."

"I'm expected," she said, smiling that viper smile she had perfected; venomous and deadly. She hooded her eyes. "I really don't want to keep my client waiting, and I'd hate for you to be on the receiving end of his…" she looked way, coy, "it won't be pleasant for you."

The bouncer huffed, leaned over to his partner and spoke a few words before lifting the chain. She smiled but it fell. "Weapons." He pointed to an empty bin. She chewed the inside of her cheek before removing the obvious ones. "Weapons," he repeated, pointing her stingers.

"Bracelets," she said, and shook her wrists to make them clack slightly.

He grunted. " _Dobre_." He waved her in. She smiled at him and entered the sea of humanity. The young people pressed around her, the music — some indie electro-dance music — thrummed and vibrated, the bass thudding in her chest. People high on ecstasy and other drugs ground their bodies against each other, moving to the music, the strobe and black lights creating an optical mind field for her to navigate through. The glowing rings on the dancers didn't help either. The smell of sweat, sex and booze hung heavy in the air as she moved through them, smiling here and there as she made her way to the bar. She sat down next to a black guy nursing his drink. The bartender jerked his head at her.

"Vodka on the rocks," she said, smiling prettily at him. She slipped him some extra money and jerked her head off to the side. The man was used to having shady figures doing business. She took a sip of her drink, watching the distorted reflections of the dancers on the bottles. "Lovely weather," she said.

"Not a fan of sandstorms," the man replied to her. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, meeting his gaze. They shared a smirk. "Web too small?"

She turned around on her stool, to watch the dancers better. "I was looking for a new branch to spin it on," she said, sipping her drink. "How's the eyrie?"

"View could be better," Sam said, though he didn't move from his original position. "He's grateful."

The way Sam held himself gave away his lingering confliction over her helping Steve and her choice to side with Tony. She sighed through her nose. "I know." She sucked in an ice cube, rolling it around her tongue.

"Do you even care?" The bite in Sam's tone caught her off-guard. "Before everything went to hell?" The bass drop and the music stopped for a heartbeat and then picked up again with ear splitting wobbles and wub-wubs.

"Don't." She glared at Sam, breaking her cool façade for a heartbeat. She wouldn't be here if she didn't care. She wouldn't be doing this, risking everything on the slim chance that she'll find Steve again. She turned back to the dancers as another song began to play. She blinked as the DJ stripped some old records, the sound grating on her ears. She heard Sam sigh.

"We're all he has. You know." Sam didn't say anything beyond that. Natasha twirled her glass, sucking on another ice cube. "Including you."

Tony took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. She watched this from his reflection on the glass desk. He slipped his glasses back on, made a sound and looked at her. "If you do this Natasha… I can't protect you," he said, leaning forward. "The only reason Ross hasn't demanded your head when you—"

"Told him where he can shove it?" she asked, giving Tony a pretty smile. "Twice."

Tony puffed his cheeks out. "Not the phrasing I would've used—"

"You would've made it more sardonic and a tad cruder." She patted his hand.

"He wants to know how Sam's wingsuit went missing." Tony leveled her with a gaze. "Not to mention how four top level security prisoners from a floating prison escaped without anyone knowing how."

"I've wondered the same thing," she said, her face a perfect mask of serenity, she didn't miss the fact that Tony had Steve's shield shoved beneath his desk; she wasn't about to ask how he got it. Tony leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against his desk. She looked at him. For all his blustering, for all his egotistical annoying hyper verbalization, Tony Stark was a good man deep down. For that Natasha thanked him for it. "You, Vision and…" he stopped. She understood. He and Pepper were still up in the air. "Rhodey are all I have."

"We are all any of us have," she replied, a little half smile on her face. "I'm sorry about your parents." She had told Steve that it was more important to stay together rather than how they stayed together. Like it or not the Avengers were family.

"Me too." He leaned back in his chair; it creaked. "You'll be off the grid. Vanished. A ghost. They'll be coming for you. Helping Steve and Bucky escape, telling Ross off, whatever you were doing for two months without a trace."

She gave Tony a sad smile. "Been like that before. I can survive." Most of her life she had been a ghost, a whisper in the night. Everyone had heard of the black widow spider, but few actually seen one or dealt with one. She was comfortable living her life like that. She was like an octopus, always changing its skin to match the situation at hand. It was a life that could do things to a person, mess with their heads. She had one thing that kept her sane.

"You get caught, the US government will deny all knowledge of you." Tony leaned forward. "Or they'll say you're a criminal and throw you into prison… tailored made for you."

"Was like that with the Kremlin when I worked for them" — she shrugged — "they told me to not get caught." She felt a bit better when he gave her an amuse smirk.

"Are you sure you want to do this? Steve— he—" She'd pretended not to see Tony's eyes flick to the shield he thought she didn't know about beneath his desk, or the desk drawer where he kept a burner phone.

"He's my friend," she said, swallowing tightly. Memories of that day in the car, when she had asked him what he wanted her to be. He had said a friend. "He's my friend."

For his credit, Tony didn't say anything, simply nodded. "Alright." He raised his hands in defeat. "Do what you gotta do Natasha," he said. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

"I'm looking Steve," she said as she stood up, "I'll find him." She paused at the door. "Goodbye Tony."

She crunched the ice cube. "He's all I have too," she said. That was the damnable truth to it. Of all the Avengers, she and Steve were the closest. Mostly due to their time in Shield, but something more. _Shared life experiences_. Even that brief stint with Bruce couldn't compare to her and Steve's bond, which rivaled her bond with Clint. She finished her drink and sat it down on the napkin. "He kissed her didn't he."

"You really want to talk about this now?"

"I saw the tunnel footage, so don't bother denying it," Natasha said. "He never talked about her, never said a word about her and—"

"Jealousy isn't becoming," Sam teased. She snorted. She felt hurt and jealous, but Steve made it clear he wanted to be friends. "Natasha—"

"I must get going." She stood up and picked up her napkin, wiping her mouth on it as she moved through the crowd and out into the night hair. She stopped in an alley and glanced down at the napkin. Coordinates. She blinked, looking up at the stars. She snorted. Steve wasn't making this easy for her. She'd need to buy train tickets to Uzbekistan. "Thought you needed my help Steve."

* * *

She stared at the Aral Sea, watching the fishermen cast their nets, the sun rising over the blue waters of the lake. She glanced at Wanda, as the young woman came up to her. She and Wanda had grown close while she was an Avenger, though the girl carried around massive amounts of guilt about her powers. Natasha understood that feeling all too well, the constant wondering: _Am I a monster?_

"Never expected to see you here," Wanda said, guarded, the Slavic lilt to her English, somehow refreshing to Natasha. It also baffled her that Steve had so many safe guards in place to protect his whereabouts. But then again, when you are the first super soldier on the run from every government in the world, you couldn't be too careful. Natasha watched the girl sit down, playing with her… magic. She skipped three rocks. She had seen what that magic could do to people and to things. She wondered if Wanda held any resentment towards her. Maybe, and if she did she hid it well.

"I came here once." Natasha sat down too. "Made my hundredth kill here." The wind buffed against them, the smell of the Aral Sea refreshing. It reminded her of a lullaby her mother used to sing, before the KGB took her away.

"You kept count?" Wanda asked, red wisps of magic dancing around her fingers.

"Only the first hundred," Natasha said. "After that I stopped counting. My hands weren't just stained, they were dripping." She looked at her hands, clenching and clenching them.

"I understand." Wanda said, glancing at her own delicate looking hands. "Why are you here now?"

"You know why." She looked at the girl, holding Wanda's gaze with her own. "So, don't play the fool. It doesn't work long and I've been swapping alliances my entire life." She looked back at the water. "Stick to a side. Less likely of losing who you are in the process."

Wanda snorted, throwing a rock with her magic into the water. "They locked me up like an animal; threw me in a cage." She glared at her.

"I'm sorry," she said, sincere. She had seen Wanda in that blue straight-jacket, a collar with a blinking red button around her throat. Caged and treated like a rabid dangerous animal. "I won't let that happen to you ever again."

The muscles in Wanda's throat constricted as she swallowed. "You're like him… aren't you?" Wanda asked. She laughed. "What's funny?"

"Like him… I'm nothing like him, never meant to be anything like him. But that's ancient history, ask… read about it. I put it all up on the internet."

"He's like a father to me," the girl said. "He cares about me and doesn't see me as—"

"A monster," Natasha whispered. She looked at the beach, memorizing the sand and the shells, the cry of gulls and the smell of water on the wind. How gentle it was on her face, like the pads of his calloused fingers the night he soothed her nightmares, the near brush of his lips as he decided it was better to _not_ kiss her. Oh, how she ached and how she hated him for denying her such an intimate connection. She still didn't know why she ran to him that night. Her normal reaction to her nightmares was to punch the training dummy until she broke it. Yet, that night she needed physical comfort. Steve was awake, a small collection of black and white photographs in crescent before him. They took comfort in each other's broken hearts; his lips had brushed hers as he whispered: _You're not a monster Nat._

"I like your hair," Wanda said, snapping Natasha out of her thoughts. "Blonde suits you."

"Thanks," she said, fluffing her silvery locks. She stood and walked away. "He isn't here is he?" She stopped a few feet away.

"Please," Wanda said. Natasha rolled her shoulders, she found people staring at her back unnerving. "Natasha, don't—"

"I already threw my dice." She turned and face Wanda, the girl looked scared but determined. "Between helping Steve rescue you and my actions at the airport… I'm on the run too."

"I'll… talk to him," she said after a while. Natasha nodded, watching the girl walk away. "Don't leave the country."

"Didn't plan on it," she quipped.

* * *

He tugged at his beard as he walked back and forth, Wanda and Sam watching him. The house — okay, _hovel_ — they had bunkered in had a ceiling that forced him to stoop as he walked. He listened to both Sam and Wanda's accounts of meeting with Natasha, sparing a glance at the wingsuit that had mysteriously appeared on the door step at the house they had holed up in while in Poland. The note on it said: Redwing missed you. With a smiley face at the end. He almost thought it was Sharon, but didn't think she would risk her career and life for him a second time.

"I don't trust her," Wanda said, from the rickety chair. Sam nodded from his place on the worn mattress. "What if this is just a ploy to get close to you? What if she's secretly working for Ross?"

"Neither do I," Sam said. "It could all be a trap. She is a spy, she's used to trading alliances like this."

"She gave up that life," he said. "What if she's here because she wants to be?" He looked at Sam and Wanda. "She did help Bucky and I escaped, then she helped me rescue you and the others."

Sam sighed. "One good deed doesn't erase a life time of wickedness." When nobody got the reference, he threw up his hands. "Nobody's seen _Pirates of the Caribbean_?"

"I went on the ride when they had Avengers' Day at Disneyland," Steve said, a bit sheepish, a smile tugging at his lips. "I liked it. It was fun." His smile fell, he had went with Natasha and the Barton family. "We'll have to take you some time Wanda, you'll like it."

"If we're ever allowed to go back home," Sam grumbled. He nodded in agreement. "You really think she's here because she regrets?"

"Nat's human like the rest of us." Steve gave a little shrug. "Plus, you're out of prison _and_ your wingsuit showed up."

"That was probably Sharon, because she likes you and—"

"It wasn't Sharon." He had no proof to the contrary, but his gut told him Sharon Carter was not involved with the sudden appearance of the wingsuit. He didn't know how severely she was punished, and even if she got off with a slap on the wrist, she would still be under more scrutiny. Peggy Carter had a lot of pull still, at least he hoped.

"You're not suggesting Natasha, did it?" Sam asked, he glanced at his wingsuit and shifted away a little bit.  
"I doubt she sabotaged it," he huffed, "and I don't know. Maybe." He resumed his pacing, pretending to think about his options. He had contacted Clint to get in touch with Natasha. He wanted Natasha, needed her insight in living on the run and hiding from every government agency in the world. It was Sam and Wanda that set up this vetting system. Despite the fact Natasha had helped him get them out of prison. "I trust her," Steve said.

"Steve," Wanda said, a pleading tone in her voice as Sam threw up his hands in defeat. "Are you sure about this."

"You two can leave if you choose, I won't hold—"

"Like hell, man," Sam said, "we're with you until the end. You can't do everything on your own."

"Then trust me about Natasha," he said, "if she…" he swallowed, "betrays us. Then I will take full responsibility."

Wanda and Sam looked at each other. Sam caved first. "Alright," he said, "so far your judgement has been sound. We trust you and if you think Natasha… then we'll follow your lead."

"Wanda?" he asked as the girl rubbed her neck, remembering the collar on her throat. "I won't go unless we all agree to this."

"No." Wanda said. "I'm with you Steve."

He nodded. "Very well."

* * *

Natasha didn't leave. She wandered the nearby village, heading to the little inn she was staying at. She didn't come back to the spot she met Wanda the day before until evening though, and the dying sun illuminated the waters and threw her shadows across it. Everything from her past tumbled about her mind, coupled with a myriad of what ifs. Every memory was obsidian sharp and she cut herself with each one, watching herself slowly bleed. She felt like she was drowning in her own blood and in a way such a death justified everything she did.

"Nat."

She smiled, she only let two people call he that. She turned around and he was standing there, the dying light behind him making her squint and shade her eyes. "Steve."

Her steps began slowly at first, as if she was moving through molasses, and then finally she was in his arms. His arms that wrapped her tight and held her, grounding her to this reality, to the glimmer of hope that she was not a monster. He smelled of dust and sweat, a bit of blood and something that was uniquely him. His heartbeat was soothing, she felt a sense of peace wash over her. "I missed you."

"I missed you too."

She pulled away and laughing as she grabbed his beard and tugged at it. It was good to hear him laugh, as he removed her hands. "So, a beard." He had listened to her when she explained to him about a simple change of hair style could change a person's appearance.

"Good way to hide." He looked her up and down. "What are you doing here? You—"

"I came." She took his hand in hers, brushing her thumb over his knuckles. "I came. You called and I came."

"Sam and Wanda are… it took some convincing," he said, gazing at her hand. The wind blew, ruffling his hair, which had gotten longer since the last time she saw him. He was almost unrecognizable. "I never—"

"My place is here," she said, "besides you. As your friend… and your partner." She gave his hand a squeeze. "I didn't want you be alone."

His hand tightened on hers.

She watched him mull it over, the sea breeze ruffling his hair and beard. She could tell he was worried; worried about what the future held, what would happen to them if they ended up getting caught. He had to protect Sam and Wanda and now her. He knew they could take care of themselves, but it was the _right thing to do_ , it was what good men did. She never felt weaker for when he defended her. No, she felt stronger, special even, because even though she knew he knew she could take care of herself, he still felt the need to protect her.

She made a promise that day she took the flash-drive from the vending machine. A promise to herself to be a better person, and it was one of the reasons why she dumped her history on the internet. She was willing and committed. She needed him, and he needed her. Yes, Sam and Wanda were his friends, but she was different. They knew it, he knew it, she knew it. He _needed_ her.

"Okay."

* * *

 **So I finally finished Civil War. My heart!**

 **Also, I found the kiss between Sharon and Steve…** _ **weird**_ **. It was just weird.**

 **I've been wanting to write this fic since Winter Soldier, but I needed to watch Civil War first. There will be more in this little series, what they did between Civil War and Infinity War. What made Sam go "well this is awkward" when Bruce came back.**

 **Ironically, Within Temptation's album** _ **Hydra**_ **fits these two a lot. Also Sharon den Adel's solo album** _ **My Indigo**_ **does as well.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	2. Crash and Burn

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _And your wild_ _heart is broken but it won't stop there_ _._ _Cause you will crash and burn Cause in the night I'm losing you..._ _Will crash and burn! You crash and never learn! You crash and never_ _learn! You crash and burn! Cause, you crash and burn. Don't break down,_ _don't break it down, don't break down… — My Indigo_

* * *

 _Vienna, Austria — one year earlier_

When her husband vanished, Natasha didn't feel heartbroken. In the back of her mind, she always expected that he'll vanish, that he'd be taken one day to be killed or turned into a monster. So, she never felt heartbroken over it (it had helped that her marriage to Alexi had been arranged). She simply moved on and told herself that love was for fairytales and people not like her. Love was a weakness and caused more mission failures that not.

It crashed into her like a semi-truck — or one of Tony's blasters — and settled cold and heavy in her gut. Seeing Sharon Carter there in that room with Sam, talking to Steve, helping him… it should have been her, but the Accords prevented her from doing so. If anything felt like heartbreak, it was in that moment. She had left the building then, not wanting anyone — Steve — to see her in such a state. She made a made a beeline to the nearest liquor store and bought a bottle of vodka before going to her hotel room. She sat on the bed, the vodka on the table, and simply stared at it.

She had told Steve to call Sharon.

Sharon and Steve had a share connection in their bond to Peggy Carter.

Sharon was a good person, with a good past. She wasn't a monster.

Sharon was everything she was not. Everything Steve needed in a partner.

Night had settled, and she had chugged half the bottle of vodka. Though the serum they injected her with wasn't perfect like Steve's, her metabolism was still beyond that of a normal human. It took forever for her to get honestly drunk, not that she wanted to get drunk. She just wanted this pain to stop. The pain of losing a man that was never hers to lose. They weren't a couple, they were friends.

Then why do I feel like this? She stared at her reflection in the mirror, her mascara was running, her eyeliner smudged, her eyes looking like she got punched in the face, tear tracks down her cheeks. It was hard to breath, her throat tight with every swallow of vodka. With a scream she smashed the bottle, the rest of the booze splashing onto the floor with the shards. She stooped, picking up the largest one. She stared at it, before setting it in the sink and pulling off her shirt. "Bath tub," she whispered, but didn't move and poised the hunk of glass over her wrist.

The wild look on her face scared even her. She was always so calm, so collected, but she saw something of herself in Steve, and saw how he never lost hope that maybe… just maybe, after everything was done, when there was finally _peace_ , he could have the life he wished he had. Her eyes caught the clover on her hip. The tender moment they shared at he drew it on her skin. She dropped the shard, screamed and punched the mirror. She grabbed the sink and heaved, spitting bile down the drain. "Damn you," she whispered, "damn you… damn you…"

* * *

 _Present day — Berlin, Germany_

The alley was dark, dirty and a cat was prowling through the dumpster. Steve wrinkled his nose as he leaned against the brick wall. He remembered going to the lab with Peggy, pointing to all the alleys he got beat up in and feeling like a fool for showing her his failings. Lately though, he had been handing out the beatings in alleyways instead of the reverse. This time he was doing neither.

He heard the clip-clop of her shoes before he saw her. He couldn't help but smile, she resembled Peggy, had the same jaw structure. "Steve," Sharon said.

"Sharon."

"It's good to see you," she said as she hugged him. He accepted it, smelling her perfume. It almost smelled like Peggy's… almost. Something shifted in the dumpster, causing the cat rooting around in it to still before resuming its quest for food. "Never thought I'd see you again."

"Well you did," he said, straightening a little. He still remembered kissing her, it felt… different. She had said it was late. Peggy's kiss had been sweet and tender, it was a promise. Natasha's kiss had been wild and thrilling. His kiss with Sharon had been awkward. He couldn't put his finger on it but there was a disconnect and as he thought about it over the year since it happened, he came to the realization that he could never have the semblance of a normal life or a normal relationship. "Sharon, we need to talk."

"Steve, I—"

"No." Cars honked down the street, voices jeered and an airplane rumbled overhead. "I can't do this."

"Do what?" Sharon asked, a smiling trying to come forth. He watched her studying her face. "Steve?"

"Natasha, she… told me to call you. I did, and I've enjoyed the time we've had together. But… after what happened last year, what I did, what Tony—"

"None of that matters, Steve," Sharon said, holding his hands. "I still have some strings I can pull, left over from Aunt Peggy, favors that need to be owed—"

"That's the thing Sharon," he said. The cat meowed, scrambling out of the dumpster and running off. He looked around, catching a glimpse of glowing eyes and looking back at Sharon. "You aren't your aunt." He smoothed his thumbs over the backs of her hands. "And… I'm trying to hold onto something that I lost. I'm replacing Peggy with you, because you two are so similar both in appearance and personality that I thought… maybe… maybe I can still hold onto something I lost." He licked his lips. "I love her, Sharon. I'm afraid to lose her."

"She's dead Steve. Been dead for a year." Sharon pulled her hands free, cupping his face. "You can't hold onto a dead dream. You should move on, _need to_ in fact."

"I know," he whispered. It was so difficult though. He still remembered Peggy as a young woman, with warm red lips and lush brown hair. It was difficult to reconcile his memories of Peggy with the old woman that had died a year ago. He understood the logic, that Peggy had lived her life, moved on, grown old; his heart on the other hand refused to believe any of it. "I don't want you to be… I don't want you to be a consolation prize. I can't love you the way you want or deserve. I'm not sure if I even did love you." He glanced up at the sky, watching a plane fly overhead, the red and green lights flashing on its underbelly. "I'm sorry."

"I see," she whispered, pulling her hands away. "Why didn't you tell me earlier? Have you been feeling this since she died or before she died?"

He tucked his hands beneath his armpits. "When I came out of the ice, I thought I lost everyone. Then I found Peggy, but in a way… I already lost her. It's been since we met, in a subtle way." He looked at his feet. He never broke up with a girl before. He never thought he would have to, who would want a ninety-five-pound asthmatic as a boyfriend anyway? "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too," she said, a cold look in her eyes. She looked about her, a bit unsure on what to do. "Well, I guess this is goodbye. Whatever happens from here on out, know that I did care about you."

"I cared about too," he said. She gave him a brittle smile, it didn't reach her eyes. She thrust her hand out and he took it, shaking it.

"Good luck Captain Rogers," she said, militaristically professional. He squeezed her hand once more.

"Agent Carter," he said, letting go of her hand and watching her leave, heading into the bright lights of Berlin. He swallowed and backed up into the shadows, wishing he could get drunk. He pulled his compass out, brushing his thumb over Peggy's picture. "Where do I go from here, Peggy?"

* * *

Natasha sipped her drink, watching the dancers from their reflections on the bottles. She didn't even glance at her new companion. She crunched some ice between her teeth. "Whisky on the rocks," Sharon said. The barkeep nodded and gave her the drink. She watched as Sharon took a long swallow, the amber liquid sliding down her pale swan-throat. The blonde noticed her.

"Like the hair," she said, giving her a cattish smile. Natasha returned the expression and gave a little shrug.

"Thanks," she said and took a sip. "Rough night?"

"So, you're the one then," Sharon said. "He didn't have to say it. I saw it in his eyes." She took another pull, finishing the drink. "Barkeep," she said, waving her glass. This drink she nursed. "Gave me a sob story about how he's still pining for my dead aunt."

"I take it he told you."

"Damn right," she said, sipping her drink. "He was awkward about it, almost as if he didn't want to hurt my feelings but knowing he had to and unsure how to put it gently."

"That's him," Natasha agreed. "Always thinking about other people. It's something that I hate and admire about him."

"But why you," Sharon said, "that's what I'm still wondering. Why _you_. A spy that betrayed her country, that has worn one too many false faces to even remember who she truly is. Somehow you captured the attention of a man like him. So how the hell did you do it?"

She tossed back the rest of her drink. One of the memories she had of her childhood before the Red Room was her father telling her that when the Russians defeated the Nazis, Moscow ran out of vodka, the people had drunk the city dry. She crunched the ice, savoring the sudden shock of cold. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Carter." She looked at Sharon. "He said he wanted me to be his friend. So that's what I've been. His friend. Someone he can trust to watch his back, regardless of the situation and their past."

Sharon stared at her, a bitter laugh escaping her throat and leaned in close. "You're a monster, Romanoff," she hissed, bitter disappointment in her eyes. "A blood drenched monster. And no matter how many innocents you save, how many villains you bring in, you will always be a monster."

Natasha set her glass down and looked at the bitter heartbroken woman. She knew she cared about Steve, they both did, but Sharon had hoped to be something more. Natasha empathized with her, she had been in Sharon's shoes a year ago. The woman she was before Steve would have sneered and taunted Sharon, mock her pain and flaunt her triumph. "But I'm _his_ monster," she said, lifting her chin. She paid for both of their drinks and left, leaving Sharon to her whiskey and tears.

* * *

She found Steve sitting near one of the bell towers of the Berlin Cathedral, the green of the cooper roof muted in the darkness. "Nice view," she said, sitting next to him. "Saw that you let her down."

"You know I had to," he grumbled. "I felt bad." He snapped the compass close and slipped it into his utility belt.

She patted his knee. "She did too. Tried to goad me into something." She watched the fountain below. The tourists were gone and the shadows thick, so nobody will notice them. "I didn't let her."

"I don't know what I'm going to do now. Running and hiding… I always stood my ground and fought. Once you start running you can't stop."

"You don't have a choice, Steve. We're criminals," she said. "Besides, running isn't so bad. It's what I did after I fled the KGB. I ran, was an independent assassin until Clint was sent to kill him."

"I just feel… like…" he stopped. "I just want to do the right thing and now I'm not sure what the ring thing is."

She remained silent, watching the blinking lights of an airplane go by. She couldn't see the stars here. She could see the stars from her window in the Red Room. The stars reminded her of something they tried to make her forget. She put her hand over his and squeezed his fingers. She found cities so beautiful at night. "We have to trust our hearts to know what the right thing is," she said, shifting a little and putting her hand on his chest. The steady lub-dub of his heart beneath her palm made her smile; gave her confidence and hope that she didn't normally have. "That's all any of us can do, and that's all any of us should do. If others can't see that then… the fault lies with them, not us."

He pressed his forehead against hers, and she gave a little smile. "I'll need help. I can't do this alone, Natasha. Sam, Wanda… they mean well, I know but they… they are not _you_."

"I know," she said, cupping his cheek, her thumb stroking his cheekbone. "I'll be right here, right by your side. For better or for worst, through sickness and in health, in richness and in poor" — she smiled — "until death do us part."

He chuckled, bowing his head, shaking it. "Nat." He looked at her and she saw a twinkle of mirth in his eyes. "Do you realize where we are and what you just said?"

"Yes," she said, "to both. I'm serious Steve. When I left New York again, I had no intention of going back alone." She held face in her hands, losing herself in his eyes. They reminded her of the sky over the ocean, vast and timeless with an aching sadness juxtapose with the soaring rapture of true freedom. "I'm home." She felt his hand go to her hip as she leaned in, but she froze inches from his lips. Their lips barely touched; she angled her head up and pressed a kiss to his forehead as he pulled her into a hug. She cradled his head against her shoulder, smoothing his hair.

* * *

 **So… I posted my opinion on tumblr (I really should stop doing that) about my feelings of Sharon and Steve's kiss in Civil War.**

 **It felt forced and weird.**

 **It lacked on screen development or subtle hints that Steve had a thing with Sharon (like how he kept Peggy's picture in his compass)**

 **I'm personally disturbed by their relationship as Sharon is Peggy's grandniece. Even before I ever got into the fandom, it bothered me. It may be less squicky in the comics but in the films, it bothers me.**

 **Well of course the Sharon/Steve fans all attack me saying I'm completely missing everything and that the directors cut out their romance in favor for important things. Excuses my ass. They could have had Steve (or any one else) mention her, a token of some sort as I said above, ect. (I can go on about how it just was so wrong)**

 **So, me being me, I wrote this as a way to explain why Sharon isn't in Infinity War. Basically Steve had a thing with her, broke it off because he's going to go rogue now and he doesn't want Sharon to get hurt because he's a Good Man ™. Sharon tries to blame Natasha, and Natasha reaffirms her commitment to Steve.**

 **Now, I don't hate Sharon (even though I want to punch her in the face, but that's sixteen-year-old me talking because Sharon looks like those pretty popular bitches from my high school that I hated). If she was better developed instead of shoehorned in as "Captain America's love interest", I would be happy. But that's all she is. She's the Love Interest ™.**

 **Natasha was never that. Natasha has her own story, which I feel parallels Steve's. They may never end up a couple, but I like their relationship tons better because it's pure and powerful and intimate. There is a deep primal connection between them. Steve doesn't reduce Natasha to Love Interest ™ and Natasha doesn't reduce Steve to Love Interest ™.**

 **Well, that's my two cents.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	3. Dangerous

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _It's dangerous to sacrifice it makes your blood run to throw the dice! It's dangerous, it's what you like. It's what you'll die for to live this life! We're going on and we'll never stop, we're going on till our worlds collide! It's dangerous, so dangerous! Dangerous!_ _—_ _Within Temptation_

* * *

Chaos. Pure undiluted chaos and feel of her blood pounding in her ears as her eyes swiveled about to keep track of her target. The scent of burning gasoline, rubber and metal filled her nostrils, coated the back of her throat and her tongue. Leaning back, narrowly avoiding the knife that was aimed at her throat. She backed up — gravel crunching beneath her foot — her back met his. "You okay?" he asked, ducking and she backed handed with her baton, catching the pipe his opponent used. She heard the man grunt as Steve delivered several rapid jabs to the man's midsection. Even without his shield, Steve was a force to be reckoned with.

He pushed up against her and she rabbit kicked the man she was fighting, before landing in a crouch, the pebbles hot beneath her fingers. Looking up, Sam winged in and delivered a stream of bullets before angling up again and Wanda was working on pulling part of the crumbling building on top of some more terrorists. There was a shuck-tssssss sound and the bazooka round went whizzing towards Sam. "Wanda!" Natasha shouted, and the young woman caught the missile with her red magic, before hurling it back at the man that shot it. "How many are there?" she asked, looking at Steve as he wiped his brow. More men clad in black, shouting in the guttural Arabic.

"I don't know," Steve said. "But they are like ants."

"Cockroaches," she said, kicking a new opponent in the face, smiling sweetly as she did. He muttered a soft yeah before resuming combat. It had been like this for a few weeks, rooting out terrorist cells in Eastern Europe and Central Asia. It was mercenary work, but it paid well and at least they were doing something to help people.

They shouted again; Sam said it meant _God is great_. She just thought it was annoying. They leveled their guns at her and Steve, she tapped him on the shoulder and they dove for cover as a hail of bullets peppered the space they were moments before. She blinked as the familiar rat-a-tat-tat of the guns. She looked over her makeshift barricade and caught the first enemy she saw. She aimed her stinger and fired. The man dropped like a rock. A roar and she turned to see another man, his face covered with a checkered piece of cloth so only his zealot-bright eyes gleamed. He struck viper-swift and blood blossom across her cheek. "My boyfriend is going to be mad about that," she sighed and kicked him in the groin, before elbowing him in the nose. She wrapped her arm around his throat, grabbed his chin and with a quick practiced jerk, broke his neck.

He crumbled like a sack of potatoes. There was a zzt in her ear and she pressed against the commutations unit. "Nat, I'm going to head in, draw out the leader, put an end to this," Steve said.

"Be careful then, they are putting up an awful lot of fight for a bunch of ruined old buildings."

"Hey, can I ask a question?" it was Sam, she glanced up to see him circling the sky, like the bird of prey he mimicked. "How come he gets to call you Nat, and we don't."

"Because I like him more than you." She said, vaulting over the rubble and charging at the two men tailing Steve. She slid, grabbed their ankles and flipped them as she stood up. She heard Steve laugh through her ear piece. She stomped one man's face and karate chopped another in the throat.

"I'm hurt Nat—"

"Call me that again and I'll cut your tongue out," Natasha growled, pulling a terrorist towards her and slamming her knee in his gut. She saw another running towards her, but he suddenly stopped, wrist and ankle cut in Wanda's crackling red magic. She smiled at him before going back to maiming her current opponent. She gasped when one wrapped his arms around her.

"Whore," he whispered in her ear. "I'll show you what we do to whores in my country."

There was another explosion and she stomped her heel on the man's instep, slugged him in the gut with her elbow — "Natasha you need help?" Sam asked. — and slammed her stinger into his throat, zapping him until he foamed at the mouth.

"No, Sam, I'm fine, keep the windows clear for Steve, he should be inside, Wanda and I got these guys out here." She wiped the blood from her cheek. It wouldn't leave a scar. Wanda came over to her. The field seemed to be clear, the silence only broken by the crackle of flames and the metallic flap of Sam's wings.

"Is that all of them?" Wanda asked, looking around. Natasha did too, biting the corner of her lip. The resistance seemed diminished from a moment ago. It didn't make sense. This entire mission didn't make sense. The hostages they were told about turned out to be dummies. They expected more combatants, but they defeated them.

"Keep your guard up," she said, twirling her batons. "Sam, eyes open. Wanda and I are going towards the building, hopefully Steve got this guy and we can go home."

"You mean to the abandon building we're crashing at? The creepy one."

"It's not that scary," Wanda countered.

"Says the woman that scares the shit out of anyone just by waving her hands and doing some voodoo."

"It's not voodoo."

Natasha headed towards the building, "kids, play nice now," she said giving the building a once over and saw nothing. There was a pop-pop and a sharp pain in her left shoulder. She went to her knees. "Damn it."

"Nat?" it was Steve.

"I'm fine," she said and looked up the black clad figure. "Sam."

"I see him," he said and a moment later he came winging at the man and she heard a scream a heartbeat later. She grimaced, looking at the bullet wound. As bullet wounds went it wasn't bad. She survived worst, Wanda was sending her magical tentacles in to pry the bullet loose and her own enhanced body was already starting to clot. She heard a ripping sound and Wanda had sacrificed part of her shirt to fasten a make-shift bandage.

"That was sloppy," she said, standing up. Another round of gun fire and Wanda conjured shields. "Sam, where are they?" Natasha shouted, looking around and trying to find the source of the gunfire as she holstered her batons and pulled out her pistols.

"Nat, I'm coming out, I have the leader."

"Steve watch your head," she said. She pinpointed one of the terrorists and shot him. Two bullets. Wanda found another, throwing him onto some exposed rebar. The poor girl winced, her own barbarism scaring her. Natasha swung her left arm around, the pain jarring, but years of training in the Red Room made her push through and she shot the bastard between the eyes. She pressed a hand to her shoulder as Steve and the leader came up.

"Are you okay?" he asked, eyes fixed to her wound. His captive struggled, he gave him a fierce jerk. "We got him, let's get going." He looked at the sky. "Sam?"

"All clear, as far as I can tell." He winged into view, circling before landing, his wings folding into his suit. "Mission accomplished." In the distance a truck exploded. Steve nodded.

"Yeah. Let's get this guy to the authorities and collect the money." He looked at Wanda. "Wanda?"

"Of course," she said and wove her magic around his head, putting him into a hellish nightmare as Steve zip-tied his wrists and ankles. Natasha watched as Steve hoisted the unconscious man like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder. He led the team out, but Natasha stayed put, eyeing the building.

"Where did you find him?" she asked, causing him to stop and turn.

"Nat, we're done; let's get going," he said. Something didn't sit well with her. This was a little too easy. Only one man with a bazooka, no bombs and they weren't even enhanced humans. All her training as a spy told her something was not right, that there was more to this story. Something beneath the building.

"I'm going in for more information," she said, walking towards the building. It was a towering rickety looking thing, broken concrete and spacious.

"Nat, you're hurt, let's get out of here."

"No." She turned to face him, the wind whipping his blond hair. "This doesn't feel right, Steve. There is more going on. Even by our standards this was too easy. Straw dummies, no hostages? No enhanced humans? Doesn't this feel odd?"

He was silent, hand on his hip. "It does."

"So, I'm going to—"

"No." His voice was steel. "No, you're not." She rolled her eyes and began to walk towards the building. "Natasha!" She stopped. "I said no. It's an order. You are not to go in and look around."

"Since when" — she turned around — "did you give _me_ orders?" she asked, hating the fact that he could be stubborn. She was also stubborn, and while they have butted heads a few times, Steve would either show the logic of his case or he would cede to her logic. In rare cases Sam would defuse the situation with a witty quip about the situation and their staring contest would end.

"Natasha, we stick together as a team. We complete missions as a team. We _survive_ as a team. We are done here, I will not risk you or any member of this team because you want to poke around."

"Good thing I'm risking myself, I'll be back in five." She resumed heading towards the building, ignoring Steve's growl.

"Natasha!"

"I'll be fine, soldier, get the kids home. I'll be back shortly."

"I'll come back for you, once I drop this guy off, you better be done by then," he said, and she smirked.

"I will." She hopped over a chunk of building and wove her way through the rubble and down into the building's basement.

It was cool in the basement, the lights flickering, she inched her way along the corridors, pistol in hand, guiding her around every corner. Besides the electrical sputtering of the lights, she also heard water dripping. She walked down a corridor that had a green-beige tinge, voices caught her attention and she headed towards a door with safety glass. Shiny fearful faces peered back at her. She pressed a finger to her ear piece. "Steve, I found the hostages," she said. "Steve?" Silence. "Steve, do you hear me?" A crackle and nothing. "Damn." She tried the handle.

Locked.

She waved her hand away from her, the nearest hostage backing up. She shot the door, and then kicked it. The sound of her gun and the door bursting open echoed down the hall. "Go, go," she said, entering in and ushering the hostages out of the room. She glanced around, making sure no terrorist heard her. "Steve?" she hissed, but still no answer. She followed the hostages out and reached the stairs with them when she heard the surprised cries of men, shouting at her in Arabic. "Go, go!" she shouted as the hostages, pausing at the bottom step to face her enemies.

"Nat!" She turned and saw Steve coming from the top of the stairs.

"Get them to safety, I'll hold them off," she said. He looked torn for a moment, and she gave him a smile. "I promise."

"I'll come back," he said, and went with the hostages. The terrorists came. She shot them, grunting when a bullet ricocheted off the floor and through the meat of her calf. She grunted as another thudded into her vest, knowing a bruise would form tomorrow. She shifted her weight to her right foot, she would hold out long enough for Steve to get here. She glanced over her shoulder, fired a few rounds, dropping a few more men, before deciding to risk it and charge up the stairs. Someone shouted behind her, but all she focused on now was getting clear of the building and to Steve.

She saw Steve running towards her. She would be safe soon and they can go back to the creepy abandon house they found. Get her leg looked at and patched up, take a breather for a few days to let their injuries heal. Maybe think about getting down to Wakanda to see if they had made any progress on Bucky. It would be nice having him on the team.

The ground shook and erupted in fire and rubble, throwing her back towards the building that began to crumble down. She landed on her bad shoulder, screaming in pain and her head met a slab of concrete. The building thundered around her, preventing anyone from gaining access to her. The last thing she heard before going unconscious was Steve screaming her name.

* * *

The only source of light in the abandon house in the Armenian countryside was an old kerosene lantern; wolves howled somewhere off in the distance, crickets along with frogs chirped and croaked a nocturnal symphony. Yet, despite the warm summer and the sweet scent of the night that billowed about the room, the three occupants didn't speak. They ate their gruel in silence. Wanda had some paprika, adding it in an effort to add flavor. Nobody said if it worked or not. A moth or two fluttered around the lantern, memorized by the brilliant source of light. Sam shooed them away.

Steve sat on the porch, watching the last rays of the sun set; the western horizon a brilliant blood red that faded into a deep purple before going ink black, stars twinkling overhead and the soft glow of city lights on the southwest horizon. A bird sang the last mournful song of the day and somewhere an owl gave a questioning hoot.

None of that mattered. Why should he admire beauty when all around him was so much death? Hell, he couldn't even get drunk to numb the pain, no matter how much he drank. It frustrated him when he lost Bucky and it frustrated him now. He watched the explosion, watched her fly through the air, the building fall on top of her. He scrambled through the rubble, hoping against hope, praying to God to spare her. Not Natasha, not Natasha. He needed her. His hands shook as he dug, eyes stinging from dust or tears he didn't know nor did he care. All he could think about was getting her out of the rubble and to safety, making sure she was alive.

The building had shook again, more rubble cascading down and he was forced to fall back or risk getting hurt. If only he had taken Wanda, she could have moved the pile of rubble. He gasped, putting his head in his hands. It was Bucky all over again. He almost had his friend, saw the fear in Bucky's eyes. If only he had leaned out a little bit more, he would have been able to grab Bucky and he wouldn't have been brainwashed into an assassin. Maybe Bucky would have lived a normal life while he was trapped in the ice. Yet he didn't. He had failed Bucky back then and now failed Natasha too.

He should have told her to leave when she found him. Told her to go back to Tony and explain that she found him dead, mad, she would've had made up something. If only he had insisted on keeping her at a further distance, but he had been so happy, so relieved when she showed up. She had come for him, because he asked her. His choices hadn't cost him her friendship. Only in the long run they had. She was gone, just like Peggy. He looked up when Sam came out. The other man sat down and offered him the bowl of gruel.

"Here," he said, "eat."

Steve took it, looked at the watery oatmeal with chunks of what he guessed was chicken and set it aside. "I'm not hungry," he said. Night had settled in; the frogs had stopped croaking, but the crickets kept at it and the other bugs joined them with a steady droning buzz. "I should've… been faster. I should have told her no. Dragged her away."

"Hey, man." Sam squeezed his shoulder. "She saved those people. We were ready to give up on them, but she went and found them. She did good. She did good."

"But it got her killed!" he said, looking at his friend. "She's dead, Sam."

"You don't know that, I mean… look at Bucky! He's alive. He survived and Natasha… she's a super spy. I bet she'll come limping over that horizon tomorrow and say something like did we miss her."

"I saw the building fall on her. The serum they gave her is not a complete version, not like mine. Mine was perfect. Her's, Bucky's, those are altered versions." He rubbed his forehead. "I could probably survive it, if I had my shield." He hung his head; he had to abandon it because Tony felt that it rightfully belonged to him because his _father_ made it. Steve didn't protest then because he was so _sick_ of fighting friends that he just dropped it and walked off, more concern about Bucky than Tony's sense of pride.

Yes, he sympathized with Tony.

Yes, he was shocked and angry that Bucky had committed such a horrible crime, but when he asked Bucky if he regretted doing it, regretted the kills he made; Bucky had said yes and there was an honesty in his eyes that Steve could not deny.

So, he had abandoned his shield to its maker's prodigal son; who was more than happy to make the condescending quip or two. Days like today, he regretted doing so because he could have saved Natasha. "Maybe you should get some sleep," Sam whispered. Steve shook his head.

"No. You and Wanda sleep. I'll keep watch."

"Steve—"

"I won't be sleeping Sam," he said. "I don't want dreams tonight." Sometimes his dreams were worse than the reality he lived in.

* * *

Natasha groaned. Her… well everything hurt. Her head, her shoulder, her side, her leg. She felt like a giant ball of hurt. It brought back memories of her childhood. She always went to bed aching from the rigorous training the Red Room put her through, especially after they injected the serum into her. Pain was nothing new to her though, it gave her a sharper focus. She shook her head and squinted against the suddenly bright light. "Well, well, well," a voice drawled. "I see you managed to free the hostages and capture my lieutenant."

"Ah. Thought I recognized you," Natasha said, giving him a shit-eating smile, "Aleksey Volkov Zima. How've you been?"

"Natalia Alianovna Romanova." He gave her a sharkish grin. "Changed your hair."

"And you didn't change your attitude." She rolled her shoulders, testing her bonds. They were nylon cords, complex knots bound her to the chair by her wrists and ankles. The chair was metal, she wouldn't be able to easily smash it. "Since when did you work with Islamic terrorists?"

"Since they will work for money and you point at a thing and say: there are infidels." Zima shrugged. "I did not see the Man of Iron or the god."

She blinked, watching him pace around, his muscles bulging. He was just a normal human, buff, but not enhanced by science or some strange genetic fluke. He cracked his knuckles. "What about them?"

"I thought you worked with them?" he pulled a chair over and straddled it backwards, leaning on the backrest. She smiled, working the knot at her feet. She had to keep his attention on her face, so he wouldn't realize she was working on getting free. Zima was a dangerous man, but even dangerous men were red-blooded… for the right woman. Zima had always liked to get a bit too handsy with her when she was still an agent of the KGB.

"Not all the time," she said, giving a little shrug. She leaned forward, wishing she wasn't wearing her vest, it blocked her cleavage and Zima _loved_ her cleavage. "What do you want Zima?"

"Why do you think I want anything Natalia?" he gave a shrug. "Can't two comrades have a chat, catch up."

She gave him a brittle smile. "Been a long time since I been a comrade."

"He misses you," Zima whispered, his eyes darkled when she stiffened. "You know."

"Don't see how a dead man can miss someone," she quipped.

The light overhead flickered and a few sparks coughed forth before everything dimmed and then brightened. "Is that what they told you? That he was dead." She remained silent, realizing that Zima was baiting her with a man she had long forgotten. It wouldn't work, and he realized that, shrugging in annoyance. "You freed the daughter of the President's best friend," he said. "Among other hostages. But the usual was extortion of the government."

"Oh." She took a deep breath to mask the fact her shoulders rose up as she worked a stiletto free. "I don't see why you'd want her or me for that matter."

"There's a reward on your head." Zima pulled a big black steel knife out and pressed the tip beneath her chin. "Six hundred million roubles for your pretty head." He reached out and pinched some of her hair between his thumb and index finger. "Wonder what he'll say when I cut off your head."

Zima was starting to get on her nerves. She pulled her head away, narrowing her eyes. "Wow, that much huh," she said, "I always expected I'd be worth more."

"Do you know what a man could do with that type of money?" Zima asked, twisting the knife a little bit. Natasha hissed as it dug into her skin, a drop of blood oozing along it's razor sharp edge.

"Why don't…" she swallowed, "you enlighten me." The stiletto slipped free and almost fell but she caught it, balanced on the pad of her right middle finger. She curled it around her fist, slipping the thin blade into the knot. Zima snorted, pulling his knife away. She still couldn't believe that Zima _tied her_ to a chair. He knew her skill set, knew what she was capable of. She stopped cutting the rope. There was something amiss, something he wasn't telling her. That feeling of unease returned, creeping into the base of her spine. He was after something and it wasn't her.

Sam wasn't anything special. He had robotic wings and could fly. Brilliant for aerial surveillance but something a man like Zima wouldn't spend his time laying a plan out for. If it was her, he would have broken her fingers and bound her with chains and drugged her to keep her complainant. She was fully conscious and bound with nylon rope. That left Wanda and Steve.

Wanda had telekinetic powers as well as telepathy and the ability to induce fears into her enemies. She was freakish and scary, the perfect subject for human experimentation among parties of questionable morality. But something told Natasha that Zima or whomever Zima was working for would have crafted an all-together different plan to capture the infamous Scarlet Witch. That left—

 _Steve_. Natasha's eyes grew wide. She was bait for Steve, and knowing Steve, if he thought there was a chance she could be alive, he was stubborn enough to take it and risk capture to save her. He did that with Bucky, there was no doubt he would do it with her. If the KGB got their hands on Steve, they could potentially unlock the secrets of the serum and create their own super soldiers.

Russia may no longer be the Soviet Union, and the KGB may have been technically broken into two groups and was no longer the feared police of the Soviet Union. But men like Zima and organizations like the KGB never died. They just metamorphized into something different, but their goals are the same. Steve was in trouble and there was no way to send him a message. The need for escape became more urgent, she began to saw frantically at the knot with her stiletto. She glowered at Zima and spat in his face. "Gotta do better than that if you want me to talk. Bounty on my head? Dead ex-husband? Losing your touch Zima, tsk tsk, being out here has made you soft."

" _Suka!_ " he slapped her, hard, cutting her cheek on her teeth. She swallowed the blood and glared at him. She was almost through the knot. "Where is he?" Zima growled, grabbing her face, pinching her cheeks. "You know who I want. The super soldier. Where is he?"

Natasha glared at him. He would have to kill her before she told him where Steve was. She would never betray Steve. He was her friend, he believed in her goodness when most of the world would dismiss her as either a monster or a spy true to her nature. She cared about him and would protect him, because she—

The knot came free, she flipped her hands around and stabbed her stiletto into Zima's eye. The man bellowed like a wounded bear, raking a meaty hand towards. She leaned back, the chair toppling over and she produced another stiletto and sawed at the rope at her feet. They came free and she grimaced when she remembered her injured leg. Zima yanked the stiletto out of his eye; it made a wet sucking sound. " _Gryaznaya suka!_ " he dove for her and she rolled out of the way, slamming the other stiletto into his bicep. He snarled, grabbing for her but she crawled over to her weapons. She yelped when grabbed her ankle. She twisted, kicking him in his wounded eye. He yowled, letting go of her. She grabbed one of her stingers and a baton.

He leapt at her again, she grunted when he landed on top of her. Grunting and crying out in rage and pain, she beat him with her baton and jammed her stinger against his throat. The electricity jerked through him, stunning him. Natasha pushed him off her and shakily stood. She grabbed her gun and shot him in the forehead. He jerked, dead, she glared and put a few more bullets into his chest, clustering them around his heart. For good measure. If Steve burst through the door, she'd say he twitched. " _Uvidimsya, chert poberi, ublyudok_." She holstered her gun and slumped against the desk, panting. The camera was on and if Zima had people they would be rushing here to help their boss.

Groaning, she gathered her effects and stumbled through the door. If things were different, she would have insisted on a nice warm bubble bath when she got home, and some vodka and maybe Steve giving her a nice back rub. She smirked at the last thought and limped down the hall.

* * *

Steve saw Natasha stumble up the hill, holding onto her side, dried blood on her throat and face, a few minor burns and cuts on her arms and legs and two bullet wounds. He ran towards her, catching her in his arms before she fell. She was smiling though, her eyes wet with tears. He shook his head, holding his own emotions in check. He was coming to look for her, he was going to give it one more shot before he gave up on her. "Nat," he said, he would not break, but he felt he was slowly losing that war. "Y-You're alive."

"You came for me," she laughed, "you didn't have to. I said I'd be back." She pressed her face into his shoulder. "Just a bit late."

He lost the war, shaking his head, he scooped her up and held her close. "What am I going to do with you?" he asked, smiling. She laughed, only to groan and pat his cheek.

"You'll think of something, soldier. You always do."

He held her a bit closer. "Let's get you home," he said. She smiled at him, tugging him down a little bit closer. She pressed her lips against his, it was sweet and chaste, but he returned it just as sweetly.

"I already am."

* * *

 **So this was a tricky chapter. I originally wanted to do a flashback/dream chapter for them where they talk about their pasts and fears, but it didn't** _ **feel**_ **right. I have like three pages of it started but it didn't resonate with the emotional ambiance of the last two chapters. I'm not sure if this one does either (maybe at the end and middle) but I like it. It felt right. Like this is the next step. This is what they do for a while, until Vision joins them.**

 **Zima is just some scary Russian guy I made up. And a bit about Russian names (my brother speaks Russian, he majored in it), the "middle" name is a patronym, meaning that it denotes the father (or admired mentor/adopted father) of the person and it's MANDITORY by LAW for Russians to have a given name, a patronym and a family name. So that being said, Nat's "middle" name in Russian is Alianovna (ovna denotes -daughter of), so according to Russian naming customs her father's name is Alian. Draw your own conclusions.**

 **And one last thing, critiques. Please leave them. I'll tell you how to do them. A) give an analysis of the work, the best way to do this is to pretend you're summarizing the chapter to someone else. This helps me know what's working in the chapter. B) Criticism. Here you can tell me what's wrong with it. B) Suggestions. Here you can tell me how to fix what was wrong or improve on it or where you'd like to see future chapters go.**

 **I'm a creative writing major so… I'm used to this and I'm always willing to improve my work. Believe me, my Assassin's Creed Unity fic has had the same ten chapters redone for a year and a half.**

 **Save an author; leave a review**

 **Nemo et Nihil**

 **PS: yes they finally kissed :3**


	4. Broken Pieces

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _It's too late now to stop the process, this was your choice you let it in. This double life you lead is eating you up from within. A thousand shards of glass you pushed beneath my skin, and left me lying there to bleed; and as you showed me your scars I only held you closer, but as the light in you went dark I saw you turn over. I wanted always to be there for you and close to you, but I'm losing this and I'm losing you! Oh, I've gotta turn and run. The places that you never see. Oh, I've gotta save my blood, from all that you've broken, pack up these pieces of me… — Apocalyptica featuring Lacy Strum_

* * *

The other girl, Olga, had pushed her down the stairs with a malicious giggle. Anya had disappeared after breaking her ankle and Natalia didn't want that to happen to her. She pushed through the pain in her sprained wrist, trying to hide the fact she hurt. The Mistress never missed a malfunction in one of her students. The tall thing woman with ice-grey hair and artic eyes came over her when she failed to cluster her shots around the center of the target. "Wrist."

Natalia offered her hand to the woman, fear in her eyes. She didn't want to be disappear, disappointing her family and being useless to her country. She didn't whimper when the woman poked and prodded her wrist. "Madame?" she finally mustered up the courage to ask.

"It's broken." The woman dropped her wrist and she pinned her to the spot with her gaze. "Go to the medical wing. And next time you have an injury, do not hide it otherwise the punishment will harsher."

"Yes, Madame." She placed the gun back onto the table and scuttled off to the medical wing. She hated the medical wing. It was scary and she often heard screams coming from it. Silvery steel medical instruments hung from the walls, encouraging her imagination to run wild.

"And what can I do for you?" the doctor asked, the round reflective disc strapped to his head made it hard for her to look him in the face.

"My wrist is broken," Natalia said. "Madame sent me here." She held up her wrist and bit her lip when the doctor took it. She could have sworn there was blood beneath his fingernails.

"Does it hurt when I do this?" he asked and poked it.

"Ow!" Natasha opened her eyes, propping herself up on her elbows. She squinted in the lantern light, looking up at the thick shadows in the corners of the room so her eyes could adjust again to the darkness. She looked at Steve. He had her leg propped up on his lap and she could hear a soft sucking sound.

"Hold still, I got the bullet," he said. "It was wedged up against the bone." He twisted the tweezers and she snorted like an enraged bull, gripping the threadbare blanket. "Deep breaths, Nat, deep—"

"Shut up and get the damn thing out of my leg," she snarled. It annoyed her that she was mishandling the pain like this, but he was being so goddamn slow about it. She exhaled deeply, trying to think of anything else but this. His soft lips against hers, the softness of his beard against her hand and how it tickled her cheek.

 _Tink_. "It's out," Steve said. "Almost done, I need to clean it." She heard him unscrew the cap, pour the liquid and then the sharp searing pain.

"Damn!" she shouted, pounding her first against the floor. It hurt like all the fires of Hell and Satan's piss combined.

"It's just some vodka."

"I'm upset you didn't bother to offer me any before splashing it all over my leg." She glared at him as he offered her the bottle. She took it and swallowed a few mouthfuls before handing it back. He took it and washed the needle and thread in it before stitching the wound close. "How long have I been out?"

"A few hours."

She nodded, flopping onto her stomach with a grimace, her chest still hurt from the bullet that hit her vest. She watched the shadows in the corner twist and turn, the lantern light caught the gleam of a mouse's eye as it scuttled pass; she ignored the unsettling sensation of Steve stitching her leg close. Her mind kept replaying the kiss they shared. She didn't know why she was worrying about it. The kiss was a chaste one, a thank you for being there when nobody else was. It didn't mean anything more. She didn't—

She shook her head. It wasn't like that between them. They _are_ friends. That was all it was ever going to be. Once this — whatever this _is_ — was over he would go back to Sharon and explain everything to her and they'll get together again and make babies; while she slinked through the shadows of history, making sure nobody hurt the family of her friend. She had told herself to accept that, to be content with that. She could never have children. The Red Room made sure of that. Sighing she pillowed her head against her arms, confused as to why she wanted something more between her and Steve. It took her a moment to realize he had finished stitching her leg close and was now stroking the smooth uninjured part of her calf. "Nat, we need to talk about it."

"We don't need to talk about anything, Steve," she said. She did not want to have this conversation now. Not when everything hurt and she could still smell his scent: blood, sweat, the faint lingering smell of his shampoo from the last time he showered, and his natural musk. Also, she really liked his hand on her skin, the tender motion of his thumb. "Any more meatball first aide you need to do?" she asked.

"I need to look at your shoulder," he said and put a bandage on her leg, taking his time wrapping the gauze around her leg. She smiled as he set her leg down gently and moving to her head. She groaned when the lantern blinded her and she turned her head away from it. "You can't avoid it forever."

"I'm good at it," she replied.

"You're starting to sound like Tony."

"You say that like it's a bad thing." She awkwardly got onto her knees, helping him to take off her vest. She smiled as he chuckled, their fingers tangling over the same straps and buckles. "Let me," she said, putting her hands over his to still them. The smile he gave her was tender and made her heart flutter. She felt bereft when his hands fell away and she watched him busy himself with prepping the needle and more thread. She shook herself a little, undoing the vest and rolling down the top of her catsuit, hissing softly as it brushed against her injured shoulder. She made a face, her entire right side was a midnight purple. The darkest concentration around her last rib. She pressed two fingers against it, trying to feel if it was broken. It didn't feel like it was and she breathed a small sigh of relief. Steve turned around and stared.

"Oh, come on," she said, "you've seen me like this before."

"This isn't… I drew this with a sharpie," he said, tracing the little clover on her hip. "How is it still there?" he asked, looking at her. She chuckled, though it hurt.

"I got it tattooed that night," she said. "I didn't want your handiwork to fade away." She gave him a little smile. "I don't heal like you do, I can actually get inked." He laughed softly, tracing it.

"Okay, uh… thank you," he said, sounding unsure. She grabbed his hand, squeezing his fingers. It was so easy to get lost in his eyes. She leaned forward, the pull too strong; his eyes fluttered closed. The floorboards squeaked and heavy footfalls stooped.

"Uh, I'll come back later, since you two are having a moment." Sam's voice broke the spell and they shot apart too quick to try to cover up what they were doing with a weak lie.

"What do you need, Sam?" Steve asked, taking the vodka soaked ragged and pressed it against her shoulder. She grunted softly as he began to clean the wound. It stung, causing a sensual tingle to thrum in her fingertips.

"Do you want to eat?" Sam asked. "Wanda made dinner."

"We're fine," Natasha said, smiling at her friend. Steve nodded. "Though save us a bowl so we can eat later."

"Can do," he said, "and are you sure—"

"Out!" she said, adding force behind her tone. He nodded, muttered "yes ma'am" and walked off. Natasha sighed, wanting to slump but knowing that her injury would not take it. She watched Steve, who was staring with intense concentration at her wound, absorbed in his work. The mouse squeaked in the corner, joined by another squeak. She heard them scuttle away from the light, the moths had landed, flexing their dusty wings as they tried to figure out the light source. "Wanda got the bullet out."

"I know," he said, wiping the last of the blood and dirt away. "Hold still." He grabbed the bottle of vodka again, opened it and splashed it on her wound. She gasped, looking away, a flush in her cheeks. "Once more." He did it again and she bit her lip until it bled. He began to stitch the wound close. "We can't avoid it, especially now."

"I have no idea what you're talking about Rogers." It was easier to deny these things than to admit the truth. Admitting the truth would mean she cared for him beyond that of a friend. Their relationship had been… different. She was closer to Steve than she was with the other Avengers. Even with Bruce… especially with Bruce. It still hurt thinking about him from time to time.

"You only call me Rogers when you're trying to keep distance between us, Nat."

"Does it work?" she watched him, his hands were so gentle; pinching her skin close with each pass, the burn of the alcohol was wearing off and she could feel the poke of the needle but it didn't bother her too much. He didn't reply. "I'll take that as a yes."

"What are you afraid of?" he asked, tugging the thread.

Everything. "Direct approach," she quipped, "how's your track record with that one?"

"Romanoff."

"Look who's putting distance between us now, huh?"

"You're making this hard"

A sultry grin spread across her face and she glanced at his groin before looking up at his face. "I am? Good to know then."

"Difficult," he said, flustered, "I meant difficult." He stopped stitching her shoulder.

"Sure, you did." He was easy to tease once she found a way to get under his skin. Most of the time it was innocent and playful, but this time she saw that he was blushing, the tips of his ears red. She licked her lips at the glare he sent her. She may have pushed him a bit too far. Ceding defeat was not something she normally did, but with Steve she made a lot of exceptions. "Sorry," she mumbled, as he resumed stitching her shoulder close.

He finished in short order, and she couldn't hold in the gasp at the feel of his lips and beard against her bare skin. She could easily imagine the feeling of him peppering her skin with honey-soft kisses that seared her to her core. He bandaged her shoulder and helped her back into her catsuit. "We are not done," he said, a growl in his tone, his grip firm on her bicep. She swallowed, her mind wandering into dangerous territory. She was beginning to regret kissing him on the escalator all those years ago. If he had said for her to be his lover, maybe things wouldn't be so awkward. Maybe if she wasn't so afraid of losing someone she loved, she would act on her feelings more. It had taken a good couple of years for Clint to get close to her to the point she valued his friendship immensely.

But love was a weakness was something drilled into her in the Red Room, and habits from the Red Room are notoriously hard to break. "Steve." She didn't want to talk about this. This kiss didn't mean anything to her and it shouldn't mean anything to him. There was no place for love in this line of work. "There is nothing to talk about."

He didn't say anything as he gathered up the medical supplies. "I'll send Sam to help you down," he said, heading to the door.

Well, that was cold. She frowned, watching him. "I'm not hungry," she lied, "I think I'll sleep."

"Alright, you're excused from watches until you're healed. Get some sleep Natasha, we'll be here for a little bit."

"I can walk," she protested. He walked out, his footsteps thump-thumping down the stairs, she growled as she settled down on her makeshift bed, trying not to wince as her leg brushed against the floor. She hated sleeping on her back; she had always curled up on her side. She couldn't now, because of her injuries. Yawning, she pulled the blanket up to her chin. Steve had taken the lantern, allowing the stars to illuminate the room with their soft glow. The mice grew bolder in their exploration but stayed well away from her. Her eyes drifted close and she fell into an uneasy sleep with the memory of Steve's lips on hers sharp in her mind.

* * *

 _It was cold, the wind howling and she was running from the wolves that snapped at her heels. She could hear them snarling, barking orders — instructions from the Red Room — and it took all of her strength to just keep ahead of them. The blizzard made things difficult to see and she wondered where the hell Sam, Wanda and Steve were. She called their names but all that answered her were the wolves with snarls and howls and hungry pants._

 _She stumbled, a wolf almost got her, she could feel it's passive paw on her ankle. Glancing quickly over her shoulder she saw that monstrous creature, Alexi's face instead of the wolf's. Her breath caught in her throat and she froze for a moment. "Come back to me Natalia," he growled as he lunged towards her throat. A scream leapt out of her mouth as she scrambled away, the wolf crashing into the snowy ground._

 _She staggered onwards until the snow cleared for a moment. A frozen lake lay before and with hesitant steps she placed her bare feet on the cold slick surface. "Sam!" she cried, noticing a figure in the distance. Sam was fighting Bucky; he was unable to fly due to the storm. She inched closer, the ice suddenly cracking. She screamed, the wolves had grown bold and decided to chase her across the ice. She trotted towards Sam and Bucky and then heard a painful scream. The Winter Soldier had the Falcon in his merciless grip, and had torn a mechanical wing off. Only, the wings were a physical part of Sam, not some mechanical pack he wore. The wolves howled in delight at the smell of blood, and Bucky ripped Sam's other wing off before stalking towards her._

 _The ice cracked, she gasped as she fell into the chill water. She looked up, the ice seamless again. Bucky punched the ice with his metal hand. Natasha whimpered and felt a hand tug on her foot. She looked down, Wanda's magic swirled around her hands and made her eyes glow red. "Come with me," she said, her voice sinister as she tugged Natasha down. She screamed, bubbles drifting up to the surface. The ice refused to crack beneath Bucky's repeated blows. "Come and watch as they tear themselves apart." Wanda swam up her body, wrapping a fish tail around her legs. She shrugged against her, fear and the need for air driving her. She clawed at the girl's face but Wanda tied her hands back with magic. "Come with me," she whispered again before kissing her._

 _Natasha shuddered, eyes rolling into her skull. Blood pounded in her ears, the water chilling her to the bone, Bucky kept striking the ice, Sam was dead and Wanda was coaxing her soul out of her mouth with death-warm lips._

 _"Wake up, Black Widow." A cold voice said. Natasha snapped her eyes open. She knew this room. Knew the strict thin woman with those artic cold eyes. This was her final test. They already ripped the ability to have children from her, the two small wounds beneath her bellybutton proved it. She got out of bed and walked to the woman, who handed her a knife as the wall turned to reveal her first kill. Her eyes grew wide. It was Steve, bound and shackled to the wall, beaten black and blue._

 _"Natasha," he said, looking at her. "Natasha don't, please."_

 _"Kill him." The woman said, from her place at the opposite side of the room. "Complete the graduation ceremony and kill him."_

 _"Natasha, I know you. You aren't like this. You aren't a monster. Fight it." She walked towards him. "You're a good person, each life you save erases a life you took. God forgives you. He forgives all who repent their sins."_

 _"There is no God. There is only the here and now," the woman countered. Natasha stopped when she reached Steve, he was shaking. The knife felt heavy in her hand._

 _"Natasha please, don't do this." Tears trickled down his face. "Please, Natasha, don't."_

 _"Kill him."_

 _She raised the knife, arm shaking. This was Steve. Steve was her… she frowned. What was he to her. He was nothing. Why should she spare him? Sparing him would just prove she was defective and would be killed._

 _"Natasha," he said, and she held his gaze, a sad smile on his face, his eyes filled with an emotion she struggled to understand but yearned to comprehend. "I love you."_

 _She blinked and slid the blade into his chest, between the second and third rib, ruby red blossoming across his chest._

* * *

Natasha screamed, bolting up right. Hands fell upon her in the darkness and she batted them away, struggling to prevent them from restraining her. "No, no, no, no!" she whimpered as the hands pulled her towards something warm and firm. "No…" she gasped, giving up. Someone was shushing her, running a hand through her hair, rocking her back and forth.

"Shhh, shhh, it's okay, Natasha. It was just a dream, it was just a dream, it can't hurt you anymore."

She recognized that voice. "Steve?" she whispered, stiffening when he brushed his thumb across her cheek to wipe away a tear. She snuggled closer to him, pressing her ear against his chest. The familiar beat of his heart helped chase the last vestiges of the nightmare away, grounding her in reality. He was alive, she didn't kill him — she couldn't remember her initiation kill anymore — and he was holding her in his warm embrace.

They sat there in the endless dark, not saying a word. He would shush from time to time, to remind her that he was there, but she knew. She hadn't left his embrace, now she didn't want to. "Nat?"

"No, I don't want to talk about it," she said, once she found her voice. "It was just a dream." A mouse scurried across her foot and she pulled it sharply towards her. "Just hold me a bit longer."

"I'll hold you as long as you need," he said and pressed a kiss to her head. She smiled at the gesture. They sat there in silence, the dawn starting to creep towards the eastern horizon. Time slowed, and they took comfort in each other's embrace.

"Steve?"

"Mm?"

"Do you have nightmares?" she asked, her eyes fixed on a point on the wall. He sighed, shifting and tightened his embrace around her.

"Sometimes," he said. "I had them real bad after I got out of the ice, but now… they aren't so bad. I get them from time to time. Most of them involve losing Bucky or when I crashed the Valkyrie into the ice." He nuzzled the back of her skull, she didn't say anything. The sound of his voice was soothing. "Later they were about Peggy, and sometimes I dream of Bucky killing everyone I love before killing me."

"The list must be short." She smiled when he gave a bitter bark of a laugh. "Not too short I hope though."

"It's not too short," he agreed. "The worst dreams… are the ones where I fail and they cost me everyone on that list. I wake up in a cold sweat when I have those."

"I killed you in my dream," she said, her voice thick. "You said you loved me and I killed you."

"Oh."

She nodded and stared at a patch of dirt on the floor. They didn't say anything, sitting there in silence and watching the shadows quiver as the mice moved about. The dawn creeped closer, casting the world in a soft grey light with the promise of further brightness. She heard Wanda grumble as she relieved Sam. She licked her lips, shuddering as she remembered the feel of dream-Wanda's lips on hers. Birds began to twitter in the trees and the grey began to lighten. Steve's hand running up and down her back as he held her. She looked at him, memorizing the angles of his face, the slope of his nose and the way his lips pouted when he was deep in thought. She also noticed a lingering sadness in his eyes, a reservation that he tried to hide from everyone, even her. He couldn't though; she spent her life reading people, looking for little tells about their deepest and darkest secrets.

"Nat." His voice was soft, breaking the stillness of the pre-dawn. She almost hated him for it, almost.

"No." She knew what he wanted to talk about it and she wouldn't entertain the conversation. "We're _friends_."

"Natasha, you and I both—"

"I said no, Steve," she said, turning around to face him since she woke up. The hurt look in his face was almost worse than the one he gave her as she plunged the knife into his heart in her dream.

Almost.

"Nat, we can still be friends and—"

"No, I'm not… no," she said. The tears were back, his dream confession, his rough hands against her soft cheeks, wiping her tears away. She whimpered; only him. She would only allow such weakness in front of him, because she trusted him explicitly. "I won't… we can't…" I can't lose you, Steve.

"I know. I know it hurts, believe me I do. People get close to me and they seem to slip through my fingers." He shuddered, a grimace on his face at the wording. "But I learned that sometimes it's better to have a few precious memories and a shared connection than never allowing it to happen. Isolating yourself to protect your heart isn't a good idea and somethings things just—"

"No!" she looked at him. "No, I won't let it. I won't let this… losing friends hurt, but I can move on. I can deal with the loss of friends. I've lost so many friends that I can't keep track of them. But… but…" her lip trembled. "If we… I can't deal with that. It'll break me, Steve." I already loved once, and the KGB took that away from me. I won't be able to survive if I lost you too, Steve.

"Natasha."

She turned her head away, sniffling softly. It was too much. Why did he have to be a good person? Why did he have to care so much about her, a monster forged in the bloody halls of the Red Room. She was not supposed have love or a chance at it. She would just destroy him in the end; like she did with everyone that didn't keep a comfortable distance from her. She'll kill him in the end, like she did in her dream, like she ended up doing with Alexi. The black widow spider always eats its mate. "I'm a monster, Steve, a monster unworthy of love."

"No." His voice was sharp, cutting through her sorrow and self-loathing. She looked up at him, green eyes shining in the aureate light of the early dawn. He had a determined look on his face, his mouth set in a grim line. "No, Natasha. You _are_ worthy. More so than any person I know. You deserve a chance at happiness. Even if it's not now or tomorrow, but someday, you'll have happiness." He smoothed his thumb over her cheekbone. "I promise."

The birdsong grew louder as more joined in, the room grew brighter and all she heard was his promise. His gaze held her, those blue eyes of his filled with warmth. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Rogers."

"Bad habit, I know," he said, a weak fleeting smile gracing his features for a moment, regret clear in his eyes. "But I know you will have happiness."

She gave him a sad smile, wanting to believe in his comforting lie. "Steve…"

"Somethings you just can't stop Nat," he said, hands on her shoulders. "You ran with it when it was Bruce. Why are you so unsure now?"

Because I didn't love Bruce the way I love you. "We're just friends," she whispered, finding a sense of calm within her training. He had wanted her to be a friend, so that is what she became a friend. Falling in love, well… that was an occupational hazard she didn't foresee. "That is what you wanted me to be, so I became your friend."

He stood up with a growl, running a hand through his hair, his back facing her for a brief moment before he spun around, frustration etched into his face. "And if I had said I wanted you to be my lover?"

She stiffened as she looked at her hands, golden in the morning light. All her life she had been molded into what people have wanted her to be: killer, lover, friend, enemy. She was like clay and whatever the job required was her sculptor. "I would have been that if you had asked," she said.

His shoulders rose and fell. "Stop lying to yourself, Natasha!" he said.

"You first," she hissed, pinpointing the source of his regret. "Admit that you want to go back." He froze, staring at her and for a heartbeat she saw shame in his eyes. In another life, she would have reveled in finding this sore spot. In another life she would have twisted the knife further until she had him right where she wanted him. "Stop lying to yourself, Steve."

"She's gone," he breathed, "I have nothing to go back to." He folded his arms over his chest, this line of questioning curtailed. "I don't like that you're lying to yourself or to me. I don't like lairs, I don't like bullies—"

"You shouldn't like me, then," she snapped, her anger at his stubbornness fueling her, allowing her to forget that ache in her chest, the one of longing and desire to just give in. "I'm a bully and a liar and all around bad person, Steve. You should be disgusted and you should hate me."

He gave her a sad look as if she just kicked his puppy in front of him. "I could never hate you, Natasha." He slumped to his knees in front of her and reached out to her, fingertips brushing her cheek. She gave him a sad smile as she leaned into his touch. "Never in a million years could I hate you." His voice was thick with tears he refused to shed. "Never."

We're both torn in two, huh? "Oh Steve." She sniffed. "You stubborn fool." His hand fell away from her cheek and she slid to her good hip, unable to meet his gaze. She felt adrift without his grounding touch, a ship unmoored, unable to find her way back to shore. She heard him stand and she watched him head to the door, pausing in the door frame. He sighed, shoulders sagging.

"I'm sorry." He walked off, the stairs creaking against his heavy mournful steps. She sobbed to herself, looking away from door. She hated this ache in her chest, it was worse than any pain from her wounds. If this is what death felt like she didn't want it.

"I'm sorry too."

* * *

 **Tuomas Holopainen always seems to know how to weave the exact emotion I need to feel into his music. How does the man do it?**

 **Anyway, here's the next chapter.**

 **I'm not making this easy for them am I?**

 **The chapter was originally supposed to go in a different direction, but I'm a very organic writer, so I follow where the characters lead.**

 **To settle your fears: yes they do get together** _ **at some point**_ **. This is 90% based of the implication that when Sam said: "Well this is awkward." When Nat and Bruce were reunited in IW that she and Steve were a couple (or something more than good friends.)**

 **My original plan for this… thing, was supposed to be a little six chapter snippet of what happened. Nothing really long and for me to practice on some of my weaker things as a writer (like narrative description of the setting and senses).** _ **Obviously**_ **, the damn thing has gotten away from me.**

 **I also firmly believe making my characters work for their reward. Plus, I think Natasha is extremely afraid of letting anyone so close as to love them, especially someone like Steve (who she probably sees as too good for her), so she has serious personal issues to work through. Be patient, she needs a friend.**

 **Bucky will appear, give it time.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo et Nihil**

 **PS: the chapter titles are the songs the lyrics are apart of. I suggest you listen to them while you read as you get the idea of what I'm aiming for with an emotional theme. Because sometimes you can feel something only through music and it doesn't translate well onto paper (looking at you Ocean Soul feeling).**


	5. Brave Enough

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _What we had was beautiful_ _,_ _I didn't want to wreck it all_ _._ _Every day I think about the truth: I wish I was…_ _I wish I was…_ _Brave enough to love you, brave enough to love you._ _I wish I was…_ _I wish I was…_ _Brave enough to love you,_ _brave enough, brave enough…_ _Brave enough to love you. — Lindsey Sterling featuring Christina Perri_

* * *

He only had experienced a broken heart once in his life and that was when he laid Peggy to rest. The feeling was the same, but the person was different. The floorboards creaked as he walked across the living room and out onto the porch where Wanda sat playing with her magic and watching the western horizon lighten. "Go to sleep," he said, his voice tired.

"Are you alright?" she asked. He nodded and waved her away. She stood with a yawn and walked back to her bed. He sat down and pressed his thumb knuckles against his forehead. Ants crawled between his boots, scuttling and unaware of the troubles of the world. He wished he was an ant. Then he wouldn't have to deal with this ache.

Ever since he was a boy, he had dealt with pain. Bullied as a child for being frail and skinny, for having Bucky standing up for him when his attempts to fight the bullies off backfired. Watching his mother waste away from tuberculosis, laying her to rest besides his father's grave. Never knowing his father, denied entry into the Army five times until Dr. Erskine decided he was worthy of a serum the world over would have done anything to get their hands on. Losing Bucky — twice, though in different ways. Losing Peggy twice, the Avengers. And ten thousand little hurts in between. Pain was a constant in his life. He let out a shuttering breath and looked at the sky.

When he was upset like this as a boy, his mother would take him outside, to the roof of their tiny Brooklyn apartment and they would watch the sky. _"Now Stevie, when you're feeling down on your luck, remember that your dad and I will always be with you, and the Lord too. He's watching from above. Just look up, and you'll see us. Always."_ She would kiss his forehead then and ruffle his hair. He had looked to the sky many times throughout his life in search of comfort and found neither his parents nor God. In a lesser man it would shake his faith.

He hated to admit it, but it was starting to shake his too. Even now as he watched the sky lighten from rose pink to a pale blue, all he saw was the vast endless sky in all its emptiness. His first day back after being trapped in the ice, he had screamed at the sky and cursed it. Broken, lost and confused as to why he even survived. Something in him refused to break though and he pushed forward, spiritually weary and heartsick, but he pushed forward. _"Keep putting one foot in front of the other, Stevie. You'll get there in the end."_ And that is what he did, and what he'll continue to do. Live by the morals she instilled in him coupled with an unshakable faith in humanity's goodness and move forward.

But God… he wished he had told her. He wished he had poured out his heart to her in the darkness, as he held her and kept her nightmares at bay. People would say he was brave and courageous and in a way they were right. Throw him into combat, a life or death situation and he wouldn't bat an eye (flying a bomb laden plane into the Greenland ice shelf was proof enough), but he quaked at the thought of falling in love… deep down he was a coward. He waited too long with Peggy (despite her death, he still loved her and hope one day he'd get a chance to have a life with her. Even though he knew that was impossible). Now he missed his chance with Natasha.

Natasha. Somehow, he had fallen in love with her. She was strong, beautiful, brave and had a dark dry sense of humor that he found amusing, even her playful teasing made him smile. He figured out that was how she showed affection. He noticed that she never teased Rumlow or any of the other guys on the STRIKE team. She was always teasing Clint and Sam, she didn't tease Tony or Vision, and she didn't tease Wanda or Bruce. But he was a constant favored subject of her teasing, and Steve had come to realize her moods based on how much she poked fun at him.

He had asked her to be a friend; she had been his friend, yet something happened, and she had steadily become more than just a friend, a partner. He pulled out his compass and looked at Peggy's picture. He ran the last conversation he had with her before crashing into the ice in his head and scoffed… he was worried about stepping on her toes. Planning a date that would never happened and he regretted that. "I'm sorry Peggy," he whispered, stroking Peggy's face. "I'm sorry I missed our date." He snapped the compass close and slipped it into his pocket, returning his gaze to the ants again, they scuttled along, heedless of his struggles. He looked at the sky and found no comfort there.

* * *

During her childhood in the Red Room, whenever she grew scared or uncertain, she would sneak down to the ballet studio and practiced until her feet bled. The Madame praised her, told the other girls to look up to her as an example. Nobody knew that she did it to keep her demons at bay. The ones that the mental conditioning didn't erase. Natasha wished she could dance now. Dancing helped her focus, and while her body was moving her mind was clear and she could thing about other things. But she had an injured leg and shoulder, dancing was out of the question.

She opened her hand, the dead moth crumbled to the ground. His apology was still ringing in her ears. Every fiber of her soul was telling her to get up, hobble down to him and sob into his chest. Countless years of training prevented her from doing that. "Well Nat," she said aloud, "you're coward." She gave a bitter laugh at that. She felt so weak and helpless. She hated it. It made her want to throw up. She shook, a bit from the cold but more so from the maelstrom of emotions swirling about her.

His touch.

His smell.

The feel of his lips against hers.

The way he held her.

Every little thing reminded her of him. She always thought the stories of Captain America, a man of such moral purity were unreal, lies the Kremlin fed to the heads of the Red Room to encourage them to work harder for Mother Russia. She held onto them though, believing that if there was such a man as this fabled Captain America, then maybe…

"I brought you breakfast," Wanda said, holding a bowl in her hand. Natasha looked at the window, the sun had risen while she traversed her thoughts. "It's not good, Sam and I will be going to the town nearby to buy some supplies."

"What time is it?" Natasha reached out for the bowl, which Wanda handed over to her. She made a face at the gruel. She ate worse stuff before though.

"A little pass eight in the morning," Wanda said.

"Be careful when you and Sam go. Don't let him bring his wings, too conspicuous, and if you have to use your powers, use your telepathy. Better they run around acting mad than you bringing down a building down."

"I know." Wanda rolled her eyes. Natasha smirked. The relationship she had with the girl was almost motherly. She ate, poking the food trying to find something that actually tasted like food. "I'll be alright. Sam can watch back."

"Always look over your shoulder, make it second nature, just like I taught you." She ate a few more bites before shoving it away. "Also, while you're in town, get a damn cookbook."

"Steve doesn't like that language," Wanda said, a teasing smile spreading on her lips. Natasha narrowed her eyes.

"Steve can go kiss—" she paused, her mind supplying her with wonderful other places that Steve can go kiss on her "— never mind." She looked away, hoping Wanda didn't notice the flush on her cheeks. With a grunt, she got her feet, swaying. Wanda stood, offering her shoulder. "Thank you," she said. "What about the bowl?" she asked as they hobbled towards the door.

"I'll come back for it," Wanda said and helped her down the stairs.

* * *

A light breeze picked up, brushing his hair and brought the scent of weak watery coffee to his nose. "Hey man," Sam said, joining him, and offering him a cup.

"This is all we have left?" Steve asked, looking mournfully at his cup of coffee. The Air Force veteran shrugged but didn't offer further explanation.

"Wanda and I are going into the town later, she and I discussed it while we clobbered breakfast together," he said. "We'll get more instant coffee and something that actually _is_ food."

"Be careful," Steve said, "and go in civilian clothes. Wanda's powers should be enough for you two."

"Hey man, don't count me out of the fight just yet because I'm not a super soldier like you." He moved his jacket aside to show his pistol. "I'm good."

Steve laughed, and they fell into a companionable silence, more birds singing their greeting to the sun and the new day; insects would begin their buzzing refrain in an hour or two once the sun warmed their night-chilled bodies. A rabbit hopped out in the field, looked around and began to nibble at the grass.

"About last night—"

"Don't worry about it," he said, waving a hand. "It was… nothing." He watched Sam rub his face out of the corner of his eye. "Nothing happened." Somehow saying it allowed made it more painful than it was, and he wished something desperately had happen. He sipped his coffee, making a face. "This stuff is worse than what we had on the front back in Germany."

"That bad, huh?" He didn't say anything for a while. "So, what's up with you and Natasha? And it's not because of what I stumbled onto last night, I've been wondering for it awhile. You two were always together at the facility and now you and her are—"

Steve chuckled. It felt good to laugh, even if it was about himself; he cradled the camping mug in his hands. "It's okay, Sam. Natasha and I are friends." Even though I've been falling in love with her since we took down Shield together. "Close friends." Does this mean I've betrayed you Peggy? I'm sorry but I—

" _Really_ close from what I saw last night."

His ears went red. "Nothing happened." Steve shoved his shoulder. "Idiot."

"Loser." They shared a look, a smile and then laughed about it. The way they insulted each other, reminded of what he'd do with Bucky. It was nice, familiar. "Is that why she lets you call her Nat?"

"Don't let her hear you say that, if you want to keep your tongue," he quipped, "but yes. Clint calls her Nat, too." Steve gave a world-weary sigh. He was getting too old for this; he shook his head at the thought. He looked at his feet again, watching the ants. The rabbit hopped to a new spot, long ears swiveling, ever on alert.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Sam asked.

Steve sighed. No, he wasn't okay: he clung to a dead dream and longed for a new one with a woman that wore too many faces, but he was the team leader, he couldn't break. Sam and Wanda needed him and so did Natasha. And he needed the three of them. "I'm fine." He watched the rabbit. "Just… a lot on my mind." He mustered a smile for Sam, to put his friend's worry at ease. "I'll be fine." Once I figure out how to tear myself apart.

"Okay," Sam said again as he stood up. "Since Natasha will be laid up for—"

"Two or three days. She heals like me."

"Because the Russians did freakish experiments on her," Sam said. "Pumped her full of super spy serum."

"Yeah," Natasha said, smiling, "that's why." Steve hid his grin behind his cup. He knew she was there and he found it a bit amusing how Sam jumped. "I keep telling you, make looking over your shoulder second nature."

"Yes, ma'am," Sam said, chuckling softly as he stepped around her and went back into the house. He closed the door, even though it was broken and lacked its window. For what it's worth, Steve was touched by the gesture. Natasha groaned as she awkwardly and ungracefully plopped next to him (Wanda had retreated with Sam into the hovel of a house). She leaned against his shoulder, despite what had happened earlier in the morning. He kept his hands on his coffee cup, even though he wanted to wrap her up in a hug and hold her tight. After a few moments she lifted her head from his shoulder.

They didn't say anything, both watching the rabbit. "Is it any good?"

"See for yourself." He handed her the coffee cup. She took it and coughed. He laughed, grinning at her.

"Oh God, this is awful!" she made a face and handed the cup back to him. "How can you drink that?"

"I'm not," he said and sat it down before leaning back on his hands. "Nat, we… we can't keep dodging this."

"What are you talking about Rogers?" she asked. He arched a brow, knowing perfectly well she knew _exactly_ what he was talking about. "It's just rabbit."

"Natasha." He looked at the sky and swallowed. "I'm sorry if earlier I crossed a line. And I just want you to know that I think you're spectacular. A wonderful person and I—"

"No." She looked at him, holding his gaze. "Don't say it."

He could see it in her eyes. "Nat—"

"Don't say it Steve. We can't. We shouldn't."

"I want to be—"

"No," she whispered, her voice trembling. "We have Sam and Wanda to think about, plus what about Bucky? We… it's not possible. We're _friends_!" She put her hand on top of his and gave it a squeeze. "Good friends." She smiled. "You're my best friend. I've never called anyone else that. Not even Clint. So, feel special."

He looked down at their hands. Her smaller one on top of his. He should say something, tell her his growing feelings and not wait until the end. Yet he couldn't. He respected her wishes too much, her autonomy as a person. He was good at breaking his own heart for other people. It was how he ended up in the ice after all. He closed his eyes at the thought, feeling the tears well up. He swallowed, forcing the emotions back down and he put his other hand on top of hers and squeezed it. "Best friends," he said, even though it hurt his heart to say it. He smiled, and it was then his heart shattered for she had the same smile on her face.

* * *

 **This chapter was an utter** _ **bitch**_ **to write. BUT, I finally found a song that captured everything I wanted.**

 **Next chapter is going to be funny, (I hope).**

 **The Idiot/Loser thing is Steve and Sam's casual insults for each other. Like how punk/jerk is for him and Bucky.**

 **Steve is the dad of the group. Nat is the mom.**

 **Sarah Rogers called him Stevie. No you cannot change my mind on this.**

 **Good night, it's late where I live, I'm going to bed now.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	6. Caught in the Middle

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _I'm just a little bit caught in the middle_ _,_ _I try to keep going but it's not that simple_ _._ _I think I'm a little bit caught in the middle._ _Gotta keep going or they'll call me a quitter_ _._ _Yeah, I'm caught in the middle. — Paramore_

* * *

Sam would not have said it was awkward; he would have said it was somewhere between painfully uncomfortable to headache inducing. It didn't just affect him, it affected Wanda too. She kept having bloody noses due to focusing too much on her mental shields to keep out Steve and Natasha's loud thoughts, and he somehow always found himself ending up between them as if they consciously chose to sit on either side of him because they couldn't sit together like they normally did.

Sam had always noticed how Steve and Natasha behaved _differently_ around each other. They always worked together at the facility, always stayed late too. (Rhodey tried to spread the rumor that Steve was secretly screwing her on his desk, he wasn't sure how well that caught on.)

And because he was so keen on their unique friendship (if they wanted to keep lying to themselves and call it that, then who was he to judge) he was the first to notice how Steve stopped trying to steal little touches whenever he was near Natasha. He was always very tactile: should bumps, friendly nape or shoulder squeezes, the good ol' pat on the back. With Natasha it was different: a subtle brush of her hand, a brief entangling of their fingers, his hand on the back of her neck, linking their pinkies together, a trailing finger across her shoulders. Sam never missed any of them. He didn't say anything though, knowing Steve thought he was being surreptitious in the way he touched Natasha. She never said anything about the little touches either; she'd merely smile, and they'd stare at each other for a heartbeat too long before pretending nothing had happened. Sam felt a headache come on whenever they did it. It was downright frustrating watching them.

In his opinion, Natasha was just as bad. She always had to be near Steve, always had to ask him questions she already knew the answer to, just to hear him talk, and what was worse was he'd give in every damn time. And the way she stared at him. It was not a creepy or uncomfortable stare, no, it was the way a cat or a dog watched their owner. This comfortable acceptance, the contentment of him being near her. It was as if they were having sex with their eyes. Sam almost wished they'd have actual sex, because the unresolved sexual tension between them was thick enough he'd probably need to get a laser to cut it. He had ear plugs for him and Wanda if Steve and Natasha proved too vocal in such amorous activities.

So, when there was a sudden lack of we-do-couple-things-but-we-aren't-a-couple between Steve and Natasha, Sam knew something was up. He also knew it was right after that night he walked in on them _almost_ (they were always almost) kissing. He didn't dare ask Steve or Natasha; figured that whatever happened after he caught them almost kissing was the reason for the sudden weirdness between them. He also figured that since they were grown ass adults, they'd end up talking about it sooner or later. Obviously, he didn't know Steve Rogers or Natasha Romanoff very well if he thought thought.

They didn't talk. They just kept at being painfully awkward friends to almost lovers back to friends again. Once Natasha could walk they left the little abandoned house in the Armenian countryside and headed off again. Their new destination was in Poland, Steve had somehow acquired an old car while in Armenia and as they drove slowly towards Europe, they did odd jobs. He noticed that they didn't work as an effective team ever since Steve and Natasha had their… _thing._

He didn't know what else to call it or how to approach them about it. Natasha took more risks and while Steve didn't try to boss her around, he didn't harp on her about them nearly as often as he used to. It was almost like she wasn't a part of their team anymore and both were trying to act like she was, Sam found it weird. He wondered if the rest of whatever this is, would be like this. The nights on the road were even worse because the sheer awkwardness of the situation settled like an uncomfortably fat elephant in the middle of everything. He just hoped that by the time they got to Poland, Steve and Natasha would have worked out whatever it was that they needed to work out. He didn't know if there was an alternative to their future as a team if they didn't.

* * *

They rumbled down the road, the old car was holding up much to his surprise. Steve was driving, he was in the front passenger seat, Natasha behind him and Wanda behind Steve. The car had no air conditioning and the air was sweltering and humid even at 100 km/h with all four windows rolled down.

"So, what's between you and Natasha?" Sam asked, once he was sure Natasha was dozing. Steve looked at him and then back at the road.

"Nothing," Steve said. The green pastures rolled by, sheep and their shepherds wandering aimlessly along. Mountains rose in the distance, grey silent sentinels with their snow-white caps of ice. It was beautiful countryside, with few settlements. The scenic route was safer and provided only small towns to pass through. Sam found himself enjoying the view out the window. "I promise Sam, nothing is going on between me and Nat."

"Was there something going on between you and Sharon?" he asked. Steve shifted in his seat. He frowned, it felt like Steve was trying to dodge something. Then again, his ass was sore from the old car seat.

"Natasha told me to call her and I did, we went out a few times." The car hit a small bump, bouncing with a metallic clunk. "Coffee."

"And?" He was surprised that Natasha was trying to set Steve up on a date. Even though he only knew them only a few moments when they crashed at his place, it was painfully obvious that they liked each other. And not in the platonic way either.

"And what?" Steve looked at him before looking back at the road. "And I walked her to her door, told her good night and went to my apartment. Look, Sam" — the car hit another bump and bounced again, Sam felt sick — "It wasn't anything fancy. She was busy, I was busy. I just didn't have any time to spare on — you know — actual courtship."

More like you didn't want to make time. He snorted, surprised that Steve didn't try to do anything more with Sharon. "Did you kiss before she helped us?" Surely Steve wasn't _that_ old fashioned.

"That was my first time kissing her," Steve admitted after a long pause. Sam stared, blinking before he shook himself.

"First time… and you suck face like that." He couldn't believe it. "Did you doodle her? Tell me you doodled her in your notebook."

"You make it sound so crude," Steve said, wrinkling his nose, "I happened to think she enjoyed it." He glanced at him once. "A few times."

"I mean, I was happy for you, about time too, but" — Sam shifted in his seat — "have you ever done it?"

"Done what?" Steve asked, his ears going pink. Sam smirked.

"You know… Netflix and chill?" He mimed fucking with his fingers. Steve gave him a disgusted look. He couldn't help but laugh at that, sometimes Steve's old fashion-ness was amusing.

"No." He focused on the road. "No, Sam, I haven't. I haven't found the right partner. The one I want to spend the rest of my life with. Besides," he said, gesturing to the road, "God said it's a sin to have… fornications outside of wedlock."

"And you do everything God says to do?"

"I tried to live my life by His example, just like my mother taught me."

"And you do everything your mother told you?" Sam arched a brow.

Steve paused. "Most of the time." He glanced at Sam again. "What are you trying to get at?"

"How will you know you've found the right partner?" Sam asked. He had heard many people say they would wait until marriage before sex; he didn't know anyone that actually was able to wait that long.

"If this is about Natasha, she and I are just friends," he said. He slowed to a stop as a shepherd lead his flock across the road, the man waved at them in thanks, his fluffy white sheep bleating as they trotted across the road. "We're just friends." Steve twisted his grip on the steering wheel and pressed the gas pedal as soon as the last sheep had left the road. "Just friends."

Sam assumed the last one was more to himself than to him, so he let it go. "Uh-huh." He didn't believe Steve. He watched him glance up at the rear-view mirror more than once, and he had noted how Steve had it angled, more to the backseat than the road behind them. Natasha's face clear in the reflective glass. "If you say so man," he said, finally giving up.

"And," Steve said, "shared life experience. That's how I'll know I found the right one." He gave a wistful smile. "It's how I knew I found the right partner with Peggy."

"Steve." He felt bad for him honestly. Crashing the plane as he did and waking up seventy years later only to find the woman he had loved had lived her life without him. "She's gone."

"I know," he whispered, scratching his cheek. "But I still… hope that maybe—"

"Dude, if she comes back as a zombie—" he shook his head; he seen some shit as an Avenger, killer robots, men with metal arms and kids that shot webs from their wrists. He did not need to add plague of undead to the list. "So shared life experiences clue you in on 'the right partner' huh?"

"Yeah."

Sam nodded and glanced back at Natasha. "I see," he said, and looked out at the rolling Georgian countryside. They rumbled pass a sign that said they were nearing the Russian border. Sam glanced at Steve. "What are we going to do?" he asked.

"Same as always," he said and reached behind him, shaking Wanda and Natasha awake. "Hey, we'll be at the border soon."

"Do you want me to control their minds?" Wanda asked, yawning and stretching a little bit. "It's so hot."

"We shouldn't have a problem crossing the border," Natasha said, leaning between the two front seats. "Take that dirt road. If I remember correctly we're near a good traffic route."

"Traffic? As in like drugs?" Sam asked.

"Or people," she said, frank. "Back when Georgia was a part of the USSR, smugglers would use routes like this to get people out."

"And how do you know about them?" he asked, looking at her with a puzzled expression. He shuddered at the man-eating smile she gifted him. What the hell does Steve see in her? "Right, an op, go it."

"Knew you would, right Steve," she said. Steve nodded and pulled off the road onto a pothole infested dirt road that wound a serpentine trail through the forest. "If we get caught, let me do the talking."

"Alright." Sam grabbed the handle above the window, his other hand gripping the seat and the car creaked and groan, bouncing and jerking. The tall looming pines grew thicker, darker and more ancient as they went further along the road. He glanced at the rearview mirror, watching how Natasha grabbed Wanda's hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. "Besides traffickers, what else are in these woods?"

"Wolves, bears," Natasha said. "Nothing that'll hurt us. Of course, the locals have stories about supernatural things."

"Baba Yaga?" Wanda asked, her voice softly. "We had a version of her in Sokovia." The rear of the car bounced up, high and came crashing down with a wincing crunch. The front end dipped and trudged on with a groan. "You know how to fix a car?" Wanda asked.

"Uh, I know how to hotwire a car…" Steve glanced at him. He sighed and nodded.

"I'll look if it comes to that, but clunkers are usually pretty hardy," he said as they hit another bump. "I hope." He looked at Natasha. "How long is this road."

"How far away was the border?"

"An hour, I think?" Steve said. "It was in Russian, I couldn't read it."

"Cyrillic."

"Yeah, nobody can read that, Natasha," Sam said, "maybe Wanda but not me and Steve." He grunted as the car hit another bump. They fell into silence, the branches of the trees blocking out much of the sky, the dim light forced Steve to turn the headlights on and they tumbled along. After an hour and a half or maybe two, they reached a makeshift fence. Steve stopped the car and the four of them got out. Natasha walked up to it ran her fingertips along it. He got the impression that she been here before and was remembering the last time she was here. She lifted the wooden beam off the top and tossed it aside and then the other until the fence had a hole. He caught Steve's eye and got back into the car with him and Wanda. Natasha joined them once they had got through. They drove another hour before she told Steve to make a left and they finally reached the road. After a few more hours of driving they reached a small town with a motel.

* * *

They pulled into the motel parking lot, the car protesting all the while; it gave a sad sorry sigh once they got out, as if it was glad to be finally done with driving. He popped the hood and looked at the dusty engine of the poor car. "We need to get gas," he said, closing the lid.

"We don't have any roubles," Natasha pointed out. He sighed, looking up at the night sky. It was black as pitch and the lights prevented him from seeing stars. The yellow street light drew the moths to them, fluttering about in a light brown cloud. The crickets chirped in the bushes.

"We'll figure something out, I'm sure there's a bank around here." Steve said, rolling his shoulders and stretching his back after all that driving.

"Do you want me to drive tomorrow?"

"Please." He flexed his arm. "I haven't felt this stiff since I got outta the ice."

"Sure, about that soldier?" Natasha quipped, winking at him. Steve's ears went red. Sam groaned, rolling his eyes as he paced in a circle. He hated the fact that Natasha loved to tease Steve. He felt like sooner or later he'll have to sit them down and make them kiss just so they can get it out of their systems.

"Jesus Christ, you two, make up your damn minds."

"Steve doesn't like it when you swear," Wanda said, a mischievous smile curling on her lips. He threw up his hands in defeat. It was difficult being the voice of reason around here. Especially when it always ended up being three against one.

"Why did I even bother to come with you again?" he asked. He knew why. He was Steve's friend, he believed in Steve. It was why he became an Avenger, because he wanted to help people. It was why he joined the Air Force, why he worked at the VA; helping people.

Steve patted him on the shoulder. "We love you, man," he said. Natasha chuckled and went into the building. He followed her, with Steve and Wanda taking up the rear. Natasha was already speaking with the plump grey-haired woman behind the counter. He couldn't follow the Russian.

"Can you understand any of it?" he asked Wanda.

"Just because Sokovian is a Slavic language doesn't mean I can understand _all_ Slavic languages," Wanda huffed. "I can recognize one or two words." Something the woman said made Natasha shake her head, and by her tone she was getting frustrated with the woman. Steve was besides her, hands on his belt buckle. "Do you know what's up?" she gestured between Natasha and Steve.

"I wish I knew. It's affecting the team," he said. The motel woman asked Natasha something and jerked her head towards Steve, who frowned and asked Natasha what the woman wanted.

"Husband?" Steve squeaked. He was surprised Steve Rogers could even squeak that high, his ears completely red. He would have found Steve's embarrassment amusing if he hadn't heard the clear hopefulness in his friend's tone. "Nat, tell her no."

" _Da_ ," Natasha said, and continued talking to the woman.

 _She said yes_. Sam flinched when he heard Wanda's voice in his head, glaring at her when she giggled.

"I really wish you'd tell me when you do that."

"But I wouldn't get to see your face when I don't."

"And why would she say yes?" he asked as the woman pulled out two key cards. Wanda shrugged, and he wasn't sure if it was in response to his request or his question. Steve and Natasha came over, Steve was still pink-cheeked with embarrassment. He accepted the key card from Natasha.

"Two rooms that share a bathroom, she assured me there are two beds in each room," she said, "breakfast starts at seven and the bank opens at eight, we can get gas about a click down the road. So, we should be good for the night." Natasha smiled. "And she said that there's a laundry room we can use to wash our clothes."

"Thank God," he said. He needed to shower and wash his clothes and feel like a normal person again, even if it was only for a few hours. He missed his DC apartment and daily shower. "Lead the way," he told Natasha and the former Soviet spy smiled her killer smile and lead them to their little suit of rooms.

* * *

It was late. Sam looked at his watch, blinking at the glowing face and hands. He saw the numbers, but all his brain could supply him with was _oh-dark-hundred_. He could hear raised voices through the thin wall, but not the words. He groaned, getting out of bed to tell Steve and Natasha either kiss and make up or to shut the fuck up. He padded into the bathroom and cracked the door open.

Natasha was packing a bad, her hair damp and Steve was in a t-shirt and his boxers, looking distressed. "… they'll find you, Nat. They'll find and I—"

"I'll be fine Steve, I can take care of myself. I've done it before."

"But we're a team." He ran a hand through his hair. "You said you came because I called, that I needed you. I still need you."

"Are we?" the distress in her voice put an anxious frown on Steve's face, his hand flexing, longing to hold her and reassure her. "Steve, we haven't been working as a team since… since—"

"We just need to refamiliarize ourselves with working together as _friends_." He stood and reached for her but withdrew his hand, instead running a hand along his jaw. "Please, Nat, stay. We need you. Wanda needs, Sam needs you." He licked his lips.

She finished packing her bag and slung it onto her shoulders. "Steve, it's getting to be too much. I see you and…"

Sam closed the door a little bit more, hoping she didn't notice him. She was leaving, was their issues really that bad that she felt like she had to leave. He didn't want her to leave, he wanted her to fix whatever it was between her and Steve.

"Natasha, please!" Steve sounded so desperate. Sam cracked the door open a little bit more. "Don't do this. How many times do I have to tell you that you're wrong. Everything you have done with the Avengers, with Shield proves it! You are more than what they made you." He gave in and grabbed her shoulders. "More. So much more. You are strong and brave and kind, and you care so much about people."

"This isn't about my past, so stop making it about it, besides" — she clicked her tongue — "I've dealt with people talking behind my back. I know what they say about me" — there was a pause — "That treachery is in my blood; that I'll always be double agent."

"I trust you. I've always trusted you."

"I know." she said.

Sam looked over at the door when he heard the bed squeak, if Wanda came in here the game would be up, and he had a feeling Natasha didn't want to let everyone know she was leaving. "Then trust me, Nat." Steve's voice was soft, broken even. "I nee—"

"I have to, Steve, I have to." She dragged her hand down her face. "When I told Tony, I was going to find you I thought—"

The door creaked open, Sam pressed a finger to his lips and it startled Wanda enough that she woke up and nodded. She tapped her head. _What are you doing?_

"I'm eavesdropping, Natasha wants to leave, Steve is trying to convince her otherwise," he mouthed. Wanda's eyes grew wide, and she covered her mouth with both hands.

 _Oh no!_ She scuttled over to his side and joined him at the crack at the door. Steve and Natasha didn't say anything, but Steve was holding her hands, stroking the backs of them with his thumbs. "You'll always have a place on our team, Nat," Steve whispered. She merely nodded. "If… if you… we may be in Wakanda if you change your mind or—"

"I'll find you," she said. "I'll always find you." She pulled her hands away and hugged herself. "Steve, there is one thing I want to tell you."

"What is it?" he asked. She walked towards him, and Sam swore softly as they moved out of eyesight. He couldn't hear what they were saying. Next thing he saw was Natasha walking towards the door rubbing her nose. The door closed behind her with a soft click. He looked at Wanda. The girl hung her head, and he wrapped an arm around her.

"It'll be okay Wanda," he told her softly and gave her a squeeze.

"After Pietro's death… I thought I lost my only family, then I joined the Avengers and I thought I found a new family only for it to be torn apart." She conjured her magic, playing with a small ball of the red energy. "Steve's been like a father to me and Natasha is like a mother… to know she's leaving feels like—"

"I know," he said, "and it'll get better, Wanda, I promise." He squeezed her again before standing up and heading back to his bed. He sighed as he crawled back beneath the covers, staring at the dark ceiling. He heard the toilet flush and Wanda got into her own bed.

"Sam?"

"Mm?"

"Is Natasha—"

"No," he said. If he knew one thing, it was that Natasha would not betray them. She betrayed Tony to allow Steve and Bucky to escape. She left everything behind to find Steve. No, Natasha would never betray them. She wouldn't. No matter how many people said she was nothing more than a spy, a double agent, that betrayal was in her blood. "Steve believes in her, Steve trusts her."

"And we shall too," Wanda said.

"Exactly." He smiled at her in the darkness. "Get some sleep Wanda."

"Good night Sam."

* * *

He heard her roll onto her side and he placed an arm over his eyes and sighed. He didn't hear anything from the other room and he wondered if Steve was okay. He had to hope that he was. They needed him to be strong.

The next day Steve looked tired, but his eyes were dry. "Last night… Natasha decided to leave, work on her own. Considering our recent…" he stopped. "She felt it was best that she leaves. We'll push on though, continued protecting people. Just like always. We'll get there. So long as we stick together, we'll get there." He gave them a weak smile and went back to his room.

* * *

 **I'm not sure if I like this chapter, but I felt that it needed to be told from Sam's POV. It was the best way to show the awkwardness between Steve and Nat. I hope I did okay.**

 **So, Natasha told Steve something important before she left, guesses as to what it is. Hint: it's a secret.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	7. Shatter Me

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _If I break the glass, then I'll have to fly. There's no one to catch me if I take a dive, I'm scared of changing, the days stay the same. The world is spinning but only in gray._ _Somebody shine a light,_ _I'm frozen by the fear in me. Somebody make me feel alive and shatter me! — Lindsey Stirling featuring Lzzy Hale_

* * *

 _One year earlier —_

She didn't like dealing with heads of state. It was a typical reaction for most field agents to detest the ones stuck behind the desk. They didn't understand what it was like to bond with teammates, to make choices between two evils, life and death. They didn't understand that sometimes rules were bent or broken in order to do their jobs properly. Ross was just like any other desk jockey. The Kremlin had them, DC had them; two different countries, same breed. It never changed. "You signed the Sokovia Accords."

"Yes." His computer made a soft humming sound. Behind the doors the elevator dinged, she heard voices and footsteps walking away from the door. The tap-tap of his pen against his mahogany desk. She blinked, shifting in her chair already planning escape routes in case things got dicey; Red Room training never dies. "I did."

"Yet you still let Steve Rogers and James Barnes escaped." Ross gave her a hard look. "Prince T'Challa informed me of your actions."

"Yes." Why was this guy stating the obvious? She wasn't going to deny that she helped Steve and Bucky. Tony assured her that if worse came to worse he'll pull some fancy legal maneuver — throw money at the situation — and it'll go away. "I did."

"You knew that was in violation of the Accords, correct?"

"I'm well aware of the legality of my actions," she said. "I knew what I was doing when I took those actions." She gave him a viper's smile. "But the fact is you fear me, yet you need me. I'm the best spy this country has, and you know it."

"You know I can have you arrested."

"I've escaped prison before." She shrugged. "You want to ask me something, so ask it. Are you going to arrest me?"

It was Ross's turn to look uncomfortable. She had that effect on some men. Men with no spine and secretly feared the power of a woman. True, she'll never be as strong as Steve or Bucky or Tony, but she had her abilities. A smile here, a touch there, a charming word and she could topple governments. She once got Steve to agree to something utterly ridiculous by using her feminine charms (that had been a fun challenge and it made her realize how much she _loathed_ manipulating him). Everyone had laughed at his expense, but he took it in stride. "We…" he swallowed, "we haven't decided yet if we should."

"And what will make you decide?" she asked, leaning back a little. She had already decided that whatever outcome this meeting held, she was going to find Steve. She told Tony this feud between them needed to stop otherwise more innocent people would get hurt, plus Tony… there was a darkness in Tony she couldn't place. Or maybe she could, she just didn't want to admit it to herself.

"Why did you do it?" Ross asked. She blinked, slow and cat like as she laced her fingers together. The ceiling was rather interesting in the moment as she pondered her reply. "Agent Romanoff?"

"When I was a girl, I heard stories of the fabled Captain America. Even when I was in the Red Room, I heard about him. I heard about his unshakable moral fiber, how he stuck to his convictions no matter what. I never believed it, though. How could a man like him even exist? But you know what?"

"I'm not interested in a story about your personal history, Agent."

"He instilled hope in me. Hope for what, I didn't know, not as a child, but seeing him defended Bucky, _believe_ in Bucky when nobody else would and they were ready to string him up. To defend Bucky even _after_ he learned that his best friend killed Stark's parents…" she paused, "I knew then, that such a man existed. And I knew then, I had made a mistake." She stood up, tugging at her shirt. "Arrest me if you want, sir, but know this I believe in Steve Rogers, I believe in what he stands for and the hope he inspires in people." She smiled at him. "Good day." And left the office, knowing full well she probably just guaranteed her arrest warrant. Doesn't matter, she told herself as she headed to the elevator and press the down button, I followed my heart in that hanger and my heart lies with Steve Rogers.

* * *

 _Russia — present day_

She spun around, batons flying as she hit the men in their weak spots. Still, she kept trying to find an escape; outnumbered and outgunned, these men wanted the bounty on her head. She probably should have left Russia alone, probably should have never agreed to the job in Russia. But she was desperate for some work, and it sounded easy enough. The job was a success, but it was getting back to her crummy hotel room that was proving the real challenge.

She jumped a leg swipe, turning it into a rabbit kick, the man staggering back into his fellows as she landed gracefully before stabbing another in his gut, aiming for the pressure points on the body. He crumbled to the ground and she jumped onto the dumpster, trying to get to the rooftop. "You're not going anywhere!" another said, grabbing her ankle. She yelped in shocked, kicking him in the face. No red-white-and-blue shield came spinning to her defense. The man pushed through his pain and yanked her off the garbage can. She hit her back with a grunt.

She pulled herself up and jabbed her stinger in his groin, watching him jerk before collapsing. She wiped the blood from her lip to face the others. It seemed that they kept coming out of the shadows. How many are there? She shook her head at the thought. She knew how to fight and was well versed in combat, but she was a spy. Spies didn't fight through hordes of men. She was starting to get tired. "You really don't know when to quit," she said, taking a fighting stance.

"If you'd come with—"

"Not a chance," she said and struck the man as the others swarmed down on her. She pulled out her pistol and fired the last few rounds in it, but it didn't seem to even the odds much. The entire gang must be out. She really wished she had Steve now or Wanda. Wanda would be nice, bringing a building down on these bastards. She jumped, twisting a roundhouse kick in mid-air, landing with a ballerina's grace to punch another man in the throat. A man came up behind her, bear hugging her. She stepped on his foot and slammed her elbow into his gut before zapping him with her stinger. Another swung an iron pipe at her. She dodged, felt some ice beneath her boot and jumped back on the next swing. He slipped, and she struck.

She heard footsteps behind her, she rolled, drawing her other pistol and aimed, only to see Vision lift up the man and toss him aside. "Vision?"

"I will explain my presence later, Miss Romanoff," the android said. She nodded. She stood up and charged headlong at the big burly man that was the leader. She slammed her shoulder into his chest, pumping the last few rounds in her second pistol into his gut, before back flipping and kicking him in the jaw as she did so. He staggered.

"Bitch," he growled. She looked around, his lieutenant stalking towards her, a wicked long knife drawn and gleaming in the crescent moonlight. She tossed a stiletto into the neck of the wounded leader before rolling her shoulders to face the lieutenant. She jumped back when he swung the knife and spun into his guard, grabbing his wrist and cracking the back of her skull against his nose as she disarmed him. She yanked his foot out from under him, getting him off balance before she turned and slit his throat. Hot blood sprayed her face.

"Ew." She used his shirt to wipe his blood from her face and spat a few times. She turned to see Vision finishing up with the rest of the goons. "I had the situation under control," she said as the strange robotic man approached her.

"I will accept your white lie and not point out that you in fact did not have it under control," he said. She huffed, tucking some blonde hair behind her ear. "We must leave before more return. Follow me."

"How did you get here without anyone noticing you?" She scooped up her pistols and stilettos as she followed him. "Also, I need my things back in my room."

"I already have seen to your items, Miss Romanoff." Vision didn't bother to look over at her. She frowned, wondering if Tony had sent him to collect her so she can face her punishment. She would fight him if that was the case. "Please hurry," he said. She glared harder at his back. "Glaring at my back will not alter your current situation or get me to tell you any more information."

"Fine." She huffed, following him to the outskirts of the small town. They stopped. "You took one of Tony's jets," she said as Vision waved his hand, dispelling the cloaking mechanism. "And we can't track the cloak. Brilliant." She trotted up the ramp while Vision floated, serene. The ramp closed behind them and the jet began to take off. Clearly, Vision had synced with the computer system.

She always thought he looked alien. Red and silver, bright eyes and no definable ears and the flowy shimmery golden cape. The golden crystal in his forehead, Thor had called it the Mind Stone. "Does Tony—"

"Mr. Stark knows that I have left the facility with a jet, yes. I have told him it was to keep the Mind Stone safe. It whispers to me. Warning me of a threat. What threat, I do not know. I felt it best if I… wandered," he said. "Mr. Stark wishes me to check in with him periodically."

"And yet you seek out me, a fugitive." She flopped down on a bench. "Clever."

"Mr. Stark may have signed the Accords, but he still considers you a friend."

She smirked, touched at that. "Moving target is harder to track, yes," she agreed, looking through the gear that Vision had taken from her room. "How did you find me?"

"By scanning surveillance cameras for your facial profile, I was able to narrow down an estimated longitude and latitude for your location."

She nodded, making a little affirmative noise in her throat. She started to patch up her injuries. She looked around the jet. It brought back memories of when the Avengers had been real. When they worked as a team to help people. When they would come back, sometimes Steve would tell stories about the past. It was nice, it was family. She placed a hand on her stomach. Family. Something she wanted one day, something the Red Room denied her.

 _The room was painted a pastel blue, smiling stars and clouds near the ceiling with smiling cars near the bottom. Sunlight poured into the room, turning it gold and he stood there with their child in his arms. He sung in a soft voice, a lullaby from his childhood. Their child whimpered softly, the babe's small head resting on his large board shoulder. He turned, seeing her and gave her a smile._

She shook her head, chasing the dream away. It wouldn't do well to dwell on dreams and make believe.

"Did I say something to upset you?" Vision asked.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention." She turned to face him. Should she call him a him? She shrugged, Vision seemed to believe he was male. "What did you say?"

"I said: I sensed distress. You are by yourself and Mr. Stark said you left to find Steve Rogers." Vision tilted his head like a curious dog. "Did you not find him?" The jet bounced, slight turbulence. Nothing to worry about.

Yes. "No." She shook her head. "I didn't."

"My sensors indicate your pupil dilation is a bit above average, and your breathing hitched. This suggests you may not be forthcoming with —"

"Why are you here? Why are did look for me?" She asked, looking at him. He blinked. "Was it because I went looking for Steve? Are you going to arrest him and throw away the key?"

"I have no quarrel with Mr. Rogers. The issue has been resolved, has it not?"

Natasha opened her mouth, then closed it. "As far as anyone is concerned it has been." She walked over to the pilot seat and spun around to face Vision, who floated about a foot from her. "But why find me? Or Steve?"

If a machine could look awkward and uncomfortable, Vision managed it. "I…" he stopped. "I wish… Natasha," he said and sat next to her. She arched a brow. "I wish to discuss something with you."

"Go on," she drawled, arching a brow. Her curiosity was piqued.

"In the past year since the battle at the airport when they arrested Wanda, I've been feeling a strange sense of… doubt. I am unhappy I do not get to see her or speak to her. When I think about our time together I am both happy and unhappy." He frowned or what she assumed would be a frown. She still wasn't quite sure the extent of Vision's emotions. "Am I malfunctioning?"

She stretched and gave a low whistle. "Sounds like you need someone that actually has experience with relationships," she said, laughing a little, "which isn't me."

"You seem distressed, beyond what would be normal for a woman in your situation." The jet banked to the left. She found a water bottle and took a drink. "Is this because you have not heard anything from Mr. Banner?"

She choked on her water, coughing. "Excuse me?" Bruce had been the further thing from her mind for a very long time. It had hurt when he left without ever talking to her, but Steve was there and the new Avengers. She filled her days with work and her evenings helping Steve cross things off his ever-growing list of things to catch up on. She realized it was during those evenings that she began to fall in love with Steve. They had watched some romantic comedy and somehow ended up leaning in for a kiss only to realize what they were doing and backed away.

"If I remember correctly, you and Mr. Banner were… an item." He leaned in close. "Am I using that expression correctly?"

"Yes, but we—" she stopped, screwing the bottle cap back on. "Bruce and I… we… we were trying to… _I_ was trying to find something with him, in him, to make myself feel better about my past. And I didn't find it. I adore him. I think he's funny and sweet—"

"So, you love him?" Vision asked, titling his head again.

"No." She said, maybe a little too quickly. "No, I don't. I don't love Bruce like—" she frowned. "He's a friend. Bruce is a friend." Steve and I are _just friends_ but… "Love is a complicated emotion Vision," she said. "Humans love objects, ideas, lots of things. They love their family, their friends. What I feel for Bruce is a very deep friendship. Maybe I did love him once, in a romantic way, but it would have never worked out. Two monsters cannot find happiness."

"Do you think Mr. Banner sees himself as a monster?" he asked. She nodded. "Do you see yourself as a monster?"

She swallowed her tears. Steve believed in her, when Bruce hadn't. Steve had saw the humanity in her when all Bruce saw was what the Red Room made her. "It's complicated," she said, truthful. "I know other people see me as a monster, nothing more than a double agent." Tony's words after he returned from Siberia had cut her to the bone. "There was a time when I believed them, but I've strove to be more than what people say about me. It's a balancing act, keeping the legend… the _fear_ of Black Widow alive, yet being someone independent of my skill sets. I have Steve to thank for a lot of it." She gave a wistful smile as she shook her head. _"I could never hate you, Natasha."_ She smiled at Vision. "I lied," she said, "I did find Steve."

"Oh." He blinked. "I had concluded you were not completely truthful with me. I am sure you had your reasons to not telling me." He hummed. "Did you see Wanda with him?"

She grinned. "You want to know about Wanda?"

"I… yes. I was charged in keeping her safe during the discourse with the Accords. I am merely checking up on her well-being."

Natasha laughed, surprised at how human Vision seemed in that moment. She didn't know much about AI systems, but she supposed that Vision's unique construction along with the Mind Stone allowed him to be more human than anything people could have created. "You love her." She nudged Vision. "You love Wanda."

"Love." Vision frowned, pensive. "I have never considered it. I never thought I was capable of love." He cocked his head. "Yes. From what I have gathered on human romantic relationships, being unhappy that the person of their affection is not there would cause distress. Recalling past moments with the person of their affection would induce feelings of happiness and unhappiness." He nodded. "I do feel those things when I think about Wanda. Her absence causes me distress." He looked at her. "Yes. You are correct Natasha. I am in love with Wanda." He smiled. "Thank you. I feel much relief over this."

"Glad I could help." She gave his back at pat and took another sip of water. She wished she could admit the truth to herself about how she felt towards Steve with such logical clarity. But she wasn't a machine like Vision, she was a human and humans had a nasty habit of lying to themselves. Especially when it came to matters of the heart.

"Natasha, may I ask you something?" he asked.

"Mm?"

"Have you ever been in love? We have established that you loved Bruce, but not in a romantic light or if it was a romantic love it has since faded into a deep platonic bond. So, I'm curious if you have ever experienced romantic love?"

She blinked, leaning forward on her knees. She stared at the floor of the jet. "Where are we going?"

"There is no current destination in the autopilot. I can set a destination if you'd like."

 _"We may be in Wakanda…"_ "No. Just somewhere far away from Russia." She took another gulp of water. Her stomach was empty, but the water allowed her to ignore the need for food. She'll eat later. Thinking about Steve caused her heart to ache. "Once," she said softly. The jet banked to the left, she wondered if it was going in circles. "When I was working for the Russians, I had a husband, his name was Alexi Shostakov. It was an arranged marriage. It didn't start off as romantic, but we learned to love each other. It was nice, being wanted," she whispered. "Feeling like you're worth something." The brief marriage she had with Alexi had been sweet and special, it had showed her that she could be more than _just_ Black Widow. "What happened to your husband?"

"KGB took him. Never saw him again, told me he died. They probably took him and made him into a super soldier or something. I don't know. He could be dead for all I know." Though Zima did allude that Alexi is alive, impossible but… she closed her eyes at the thought. No good would come if she went running after Alexi.

"I can try to find him. Maybe if he was reunited with you, you may not be so distressed."

"No thanks Vision. He's a part of my past." And the past needs to stay in the past; besides I don't love him anymore. The jet dove a little bit before leveling out. She looked around, everywhere she saw Steve. It had been like in the weeks she left. Steve around every corner, every face his, every voice his and each time it happened it hurt her. It hurt her so much it took every ounce of her training to not break and sob. It was as if someone took half of her out of her body. The chaste kiss after she escaped Zima, his touch as he took care of her injures and wiped her tears after the nightmare. Their almost kiss on the roof top of the Berlin Cathedral; the almost kiss in the bedroom of the abandoned house.

So many fucking almosts. They were always almost at something. The heartbreak in his eyes when she told him she was leaving. How her fingers slipped from his grasp when she did, knowing he would not try to force her to stay. He wasn't that type of person to deny anyone their agency in life. He almost said it too, if he had she would have stayed. She had given him the knife that would defeat the last vestiges of her armour, and all he had to do was say it and slip the knife into her heart. But he didn't. She knew he wouldn't but still… she had hope he'd say it. She screamed and threw the water bottle at the water. The cap busted off and the water splashed everywhere, Vision jumping in surprise.

"Are you upset?" he asked. "What are you upset about? I am sorry I brought up your dead husband."

She ran her hands through her hair, tugging at it. "Damn you…" she whispered, her sob catching in her throat. "Damn you…" Steve

"Natasha?" Vision put a hand on her shoulder, she didn't shrug it off. "Natasha, what's wrong."

I love him. "I love him." She said and looked at Vision, a myriad of emotions reflecting in her eyes, but her face remained an impassive mask with a ghost of a smile on her lips. "I've experienced it too. I love him, Vision, I love him so much. So much that it hurts." She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, taking several deep breaths. It was so freeing to say it aloud, like a great weight have lifting from her chest, a smile wanting to blossom on her face but she held herself in check. She squeezed Vision's hand, allowing a tiny smile to wiggle its way free. "I love him." She leaned back in the chair, rubbing her face again, trying to get a handle on everything she was feeling. She hadn't felt giddy since she was a little girl, before the Red Room, when she still knew what pure undiluted happiness felt like, she flexed her hands, watching her fingers move, like an infant discovering their hands worked for the first time. The intensity of the emotions made her feel like vomiting. "I love him."

"Who?"

The question brought her back down from her emotional high. She stared at Vision, and with practice calm, she gathered her emotions again and locked them away as the mask slipping back into place. She would not say it, even to Vision. She cleared her throat and rubbed her hands along her thighs, her palms clammy beneath Vision's analytical scrutiny. "You said something about the autopilot not having a destination," she said and licked her lips.

"Yes?"

"Set a course for Wakanda."

* * *

 **Is this rushing? I don't think it's rushing. I mean, I don't intend this to be too terribly long but I honestly don't have an ending in mind. Well, I kinda do. But I don't know how many chapters it'll take to get there.**

 **My feelings on Bruce and Natasha are simple: It was weird and would never work out. One of the biggest things about Natasha is she hates being seen as a monster. I think Bruce is a bit obsessed with it. Natasha needs someone that can see her as a person with a set of highly specific skills that involve knowing how to murder someone thirty-six different ways with your pinkie. Bruce doesn't give her that. I do think they make great friends. Also it bothered me how Nat was just the beauty for Hulk to save.**

 **Yay, Vision. I hope I did a good job.**

 **Next chapter will be Steve and the others and Bucky! (Yay Bucky…) And will basically focus on what they were doing while Nat was fighting goons in Russia.**

 **I sorta have a plan! Also, I changed the song and title of chapter four because it fit better than Night 13 (which may be used later), and Shatter Me just… really fit what Natasha was going through at the end. She took the leap of faith. I also hope her giddiness at it wasn't too ooc :/ I just felt that after denying her feels to herself she would just have a burst of happy excitement. Let me know what you guys think! I'll fix it if the general consensus is that it's too ooc. :)**

 **Save an author; leave a review**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	8. Not Strong Enough

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _And it's killin' me when you're away_ _._ _And I wanna leave and I wanna stay._ _I'm so confused, so hard to choose_ _between the pleasure and the pain._ _And I know it's wrong, and I know it's right_ _;_ _even if I try to win the fight, my heart would overrule my mind._ _And I'm not strong enough to stay away! — Apocalyptica featuring Brent Smith_

* * *

The water was cold beneath his feet, the stone was slick, and Steve was hyper aware of the eyes on him as he circled his opponent in a crouch, hands open to grab. Sweat trickled from his forehead, ran down the curve of his spine, down his chest and abs. The roar of the waterfall drowned out his thoughts, the cool water did little to combat the oppressive heat. The water sloshed with each step and he wondered why he agreed to this test.

He told himself it was just a friendly spar, nothing to worry about. Yet, he didn't understand why everyone needed to be here to watch. Half the royal court, the King's guard, Sam, Bucky and Wanda. He felt a great amount of pressure to perform well, but not too well. To lose, but to lose in such a manner that it didn't look like he threw the match. He swallowed. He should have agreed to the gym. The water and wet stone wasn't the best surface to fight on. Maybe that's why this spot was chosen. He circled around the edge and looked down; the water fell in a silvery sheet, hundreds of feet below. He was unsure if he could survive the fall unscratched. He inched a bit towards the center.

T'Challa struck first, moving with grace and speed of a big cat. Steve swatted away his blows, backing up, water splashing up in silvery drops. The Wakandan king tried to grab his throat, he backed away giving the other man his shoulder. Steve aimed his knee for the other man's gut, but his opponent pushed his leg aside. Grunting, his center of gravity off, Steve duck low to avoid a raking slash. T'Challa may not have his vibrainum claws but he still had the power behind his strikes. He dodged away, falling onto his shoulder to roll towards the center. He remained in a crouch, sweat beading at his hair line and his chest rose and fell with each breath. The royal court and guard roared with delight at the contest and Steve had to tell himself to not look at them.

T'Challa charged him, feet slapping against the wet stone and rabbit kicked him. He blocked, arms cross before his face. He grunted at the impact, which would have broken both arms of a normal human. He slid back a few feet, panting. "What's the matter old man? Can't keep up with the King of Wakanda?" T'Challa taunted, a playful smile on his face.

Steve shook his head, brushing his hair out of his face. It was getting long. He charged at T'Challa, slipping into his guard and getting in a punch to the solar perplex. It winded the other man, but T'Challa blocked his second blow and punched him in the ribs. He grunted, batted T'Challa's arms away and got in several rapid jabs, gaining ground in the process.

There was a collective booing hiss from the Wakandans, which muted the whoops of encouragement from Bucky, Wanda and Sam. T'Challa grabbed his wrist and kneed him in the stomach, pushing towards the waterfall's edge. He waved his arms, gaining his balance again. "I can do this all day," he said, bringing his hands to guard.  
"Show him how we do it in Brooklyn, punk!" Bucky yelled.

"You got this Steve!" Wanda cheered.

Steve nodded, engaging T'Challa again. The Wakandans began to stomp their feet and clap, a chant rising from them. Their numbers and the acoustics of the waterfall battleground caused the sound to reverberate; Steve felt it deep in his chest. To counter this, Sam started to bellow Queen's _We Will Rock_. Wanda and Bucky soon took up the chant, but considering it was just the three of them verses the gathering of Wakandans, it didn't have the same resonating effect.

The King of Wakanda attacked again, viper-quick and Steve was barely able to keep up. They traded blocks and blows, more taps against their bodies than actual lethal blows. Steve lost his footing a few times, having to dodge and roll away to regain it. He swore T'Challa had some sort of traction on the slick surface. The chant echoed through the arena and at one point sent a flock of parrots ca-cawing into the sky. The riot of color drew Steve's eyes; T'Challa snarled, racking his hand across Steve's face, his head whiplashing to the opposite side. He stumbled, catching himself on the slick stone.

The watchers held their breath. He tasted blood in his mouth. He could reach out and grab T'Challa's ankle, throw him on his back and pin him. He would secure his victory, but he was unsure at what cost. T'Challa said he would not hold a grudge if he lost to him, but that was before half the royal court and the royal guards decided to watch as well. Steve stayed down, allowing T'Challa to kick him in the gut and roll him over. The other man fell upon him with the speed of a ravenous hyena and grabbed him by the throat, one claw-like hand poised to gouge his eyes out.

Steve saw his friends ready themselves for conflict. T'Challa relaxed, laughing as he got off Steve and helped him to his feet. "You fight well" — he gave a leonine grin — "for an old man."

"Uh." He had to catch his breath. "Thank you, Your Majesty. You… you fight well too." He watched as T'Challa raised his fist in the air, the Wakandans cheered in triumph as their king was once more victorious.

Wanda was the first to his side; she had been in the weeks after Natasha left. They had stayed in Europe for a little bit, doing odd jobs and vigilante work. They kept to small things, nothing too large scale that involved civilian casualties. Somehow, they were recognized, and they fled to Wakanda before they were caught. A lot had changed in a year, T'Challa had his own story to share, surprising Steve. They had pulled Bucky out of cryo for him. His friend wouldn't say on the progress of his recovery though, but he seemed stable, though he didn't like sleeping and the medical staff would give him sleeping pills, so he wouldn't dream. He refused to wear his new arm though, too many dark memories he had said.

"You're bleeding," Wanda said, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.

"I'm fine," he said, waving her way as Bucky and Sam walked over. Natasha never fretted over his injuries the way Wanda did. He hoped the girl wasn't developing feelings for him, he'd hate to break her heart.

"You put up a good fight, punk," Bucky said. "I was expecting you to win though."

"Did you really want him to humiliate the King of Wakanda, who's giving you asylum and trying to fix your head, in front of his own court?"

"Half the court," Bucky said and gave a one-armed shrug. "T'Challa wouldn't kick me out. I think he likes me." Sam rolled his eyes at that.

"Damn it's hot," he muttered. Bucky gave him a wry smirk before kicking water at him. He glared and kicked water back. Steve watched this with bemusement. It was good to see Bucky acting more like himself, even if he smiled less and had a haunted look in his eyes.

"Okay, stop," he said, "you two are acting like children."

"He started it," Sam said, Bucky snorted.

"Even sound like children," Wanda quipped. Steve chuckled and shook his head, glad for their company. His smile fell, the sting of Natasha's absence acute and painful. He hoped she was okay, wherever she was. Safe and happy, that was what he wanted for her. "Steve?" Wanda asked, and he realized then they were looking at him, concern on their faces.

"I'm fine," he said, waving her away. "I'm going to shower." He pushed away from his friends and walked towards the stairs to shower.

* * *

The hot water was soothing against his skin, but it did little sooth his mind. He couldn't help but to imagine Natasha, drying her hair in Sam's spare bedroom, the tank top hugging her curves. He wanted to touch her then, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked. She smelled of raspberries, mint and blood. He closed his eyes, remembering the feel of her skin beneath his hand when she had been injured. It was soft, smooth. She still managed to shave her legs while they were running. He couldn't forget the curve of her breast as he cleaned her shoulder wound either.

Blood rushed south, he swallowed and switched the water to cold. He jumped, shocking himself out of such thoughts. No, he wouldn't entertain such fantasies, no matter how tempting they were. Natasha was… he wasn't… He wouldn't betray Peggy in such a fashion. "Damn." He swore, clenching his fist and began to scrub his skin until it was pink and raw. He turned the water off once he was clean and wrapped a towel around his waist. He stepped out of the shower and wiped the mist from the mirror, staring at his reflection.

He can confidently say he only loved two women: Peggy and Natasha.

Both women he couldn't have. He gripped the counter, biting his lip in frustration. Why did he always do this to himself? Why was he always drawn to fiercely independent women? Women with intelligence and charm and a hard-outer shell that protected their wonderful pure hearts. He brushed his teeth to distract himself. Then dressed and walked into his room.

It was spacious, appearing more open due to the floor to ceiling windows that over looked the Wakandan jungle. A colorful parrot flew pass, he could hear the distant hoots of monkeys and cries of birds, muffled by the glass. The bed was large with soft sheets and a light comforter. The weather was too hot for his liking, and he found himself sleeping in his boxers with only the top sheet to cover him. There was a desk with a lamp to the right of the bathroom, and not much else. In the evenings he'd draw — always it was Natasha — or he'd read. He'll have to talk to Sam and Wanda about leaving Wakanda soon. By now their trail would have gone cold. He hoped at least.

He sat on the bed with a sigh, shaking out the towel so it could dry. He wasn't sure what to do with himself. He never was good at being idle. Maybe, he should go find Sam and Wanda and asked about leaving and what they should do once they did. Maybe, they'll agree to look for Natasha. He felt bad knowing that when he will leave, Bucky will go back into cryo.

He swallowed at that. Wanda and Sam wouldn't agree to that, there was still a small amount of distrust still there. He knew it. He was being selfish. It was unlike him. The door hissed opened and Bucky walked in. "Hey," he said, walking up to him. "What's with the gloomy look?"

"I uh… nothing," he said, offering his friend a quick smile. "Just thinking." About how I miss Natasha, how I miss Peggy. How I regret not catching you and allowing Hydra to turn you into the Winter Soldier. Just thinking about all the mistakes I've made when I'm alone with my thoughts.

"Ah." Bucky sat down next to him.

Steve picked at a loose thread on his pants. He had so much he wanted to talk to Bucky about, to tell him. The silence stretched on for what felt like a life time before he finally said, "Peggy's dead." He didn't know why he settled on that topic, but he felt like his best friend should at least know that. Bucky looked at him, twisted a bit and pulled him into a hug.

"I'm sorry, Steve," he said, "I knew how much she meant to you."

He hugged Bucky back, a lump catching in his throat. Bucky was all he had left of his past, his last connection to the life he once had, the life he wished he could go back to. Natasha had hugged him after Peggy's funeral. He shed silent tears as she held him; she didn't want him to be alone. He felt ready to cry again as Bucky patted his back. They pulled away. A comfortable silence fell between them. "Oh." Steve stood up and went to the desk, opening a drawer and pulling out something. He came back and handed it to Bucky. "It was… all they could find when they went looking for you."

"My dog tags! You've kept them?" Bucky laughed, looking at the metal tags in his hand. His name, identification number, blood type, religious preference and branch of service stamped into the metal. "I can't believe you kept them." The smile he gave Steve was sad, the implication of the dog tags hung heavy between them.

"I carried them with me everywhere," he said. "Kept you close." He looked at his hands. "It was one of the first things I demanded returned to me after they pulled me from the ice and explained what was going on. I've kept them with me ever since." Bucky offered them back, he shook his head. "Keep them, Buck. They belong to you."

"Alright," he said and slipped them over his head. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

They didn't say anything for a long time, but the silence between them was comfortable, a silence of two friends that had seen enough of the world and were ready to slip away from it. A light rain pattered against the windows. Steve twiddled his thumbs. He opened his mouth, closed it and opened it again only to close it once more. "Bucky." When his friend looked at him, he licked his lips. "I'm sorry about—"

"Are you still beating yourself up about that?" Bucky asked. He bowed his head. "You did everything you could. You were more important."

"I was no more important than you!"

"Only you could stop Hydra. I just helped." Bucky smiled. "Don't beat yourself up over everything. You need to learn to be honest with yourself, Steve."

"I should have done more… especially with Tony—"

"No." Bucky shook his head. "No. He had every right. If… If things had been different… if you weren't there… I probably would have let him kill me. God only knows I deserve it." He watched the darkness slip back over Bucky's eyes, like a cloud over the sun. It broke Steve's heart, for he had seen the same look in Natasha's eyes before.

"Don't talk like that, you weren't yourself!"

"Steve, regardless if I was in my right mind or not, I still killed those people. I still killed Tony's parents. Their blood is still on my hands. No matter how often I wash them. My fingers drip blood." He looked at his hand. "I killed them. No way getting around the facts."

"Buck—"

"Thank you though," he said, "for giving me a second chance. Princess Shuri thinks she's figured out how to reverse or block the brainwashing and the command words" He smiled at that. "I may not have to go back into cryo if you leave again or if you do, it'll only be for a little bit. She says there are still some kinks to work out. Which would be nice." The smile he gave him didn't reach his eyes. "All thanks to you."

"You're welcome. I would do anything for you," he said.

"I know. About time too. I need to cash in on all those times I saved your skinny ass."

He laughed at that, clapping Bucky on the shoulders. "It's good to have you back, I missed it." He smiled.

"But what's been eating you, lately?" Bucky asked. Steve blinked, digging his toes into the plush rug beneath his feet. He wondered if it was a Persian rug, and if so, how did it find its way into Wakanda. "Steve?"

Steve shrugged. He didn't want to talk about Natasha. Natasha needed to stay behind in his past, just another skeleton in his closet. He missed her though. He stood up and walked over to the windows, watching the rain. A frog clung to the glass, throat flickering with each breath. He smiled at the tiny green creature. They had found frogs once, after the Ultron incident. He had tossed one at Wanda. The girl screamed and caught it with her telekinesis. He was surprised the frog survived. He tossed another one at Natasha, who caught it with a slight annoyed look on her face before setting the animal in the grass. "It's nothing Bucky."

"Rather big nothing for you to not tell me," Bucky said. He groaned as he got up and joined Steve at the window. "Who is she?"

"What makes you think it's a girl?" He looked at his friend, wondering if Bucky could still read him like an open book after all this time. His mother told him once he wore his heart on his sleeve, and it was what drew the bullies to him.

"Because last time you gave me the silent treatment was back in Germany, and I asked you if you had asked Peggy to dance yet." He bumped him with his shoulder. "So, who is she?"

"I… it's nothing. Was nothing, will be nothing." The frog climbed further up the glass, tilting its head up to watch the rain. He tapped it and the frog stilled. He could feel Bucky's eyes boring holes into his shoulder, the rain pitter-pattering against the glass, his own aching heart. He curled his hand into a fist, thought about punching the glass and unclenched his fist. "I still love her."

"I know," Bucky said. "But she's dead. Can't keep living in the past." He snorted. "Should take my own advice. I know she meant the world to you Steve, but Peggy would have wanted you to move on. Find someone else and _live_. You owe her that. You owe Peggy Carter at least that much."

He nodded, knowing Bucky spoke the truth. Yet, it was still so hard to let go of it. He wasn't sure if he dreamt in the ice, but if he did he knew his dreams were of Peggy, of the life they could of have if things had been different. If they had found him or there was another way. He traced a mindless pattern on the window, watching the rain drops slid this way and that along the smooth surface. "Natasha." He licked his too-dry lips. "Natasha Romanoff." He looked away, not noticing Bucky's sudden rigid posture.

"Natasha, huh? She was the one that helped us escape, right?" Bucky asked. He nodded. She fought off T'Challa with her stingers, giving them tight to escape on the jet and find Zemo waiting for them at the bunker in Russia. He had contacted her, said he needed her and she came looking for him a year later and then only a few weeks ago decided to leave. He was… disappointed to say the least. After a handful of months working with her, if felt like things had gone back to normal but now…

He shook his head. She did leave him with one thing, beyond the scent of her perfume and the brush of her lips against his ear. He would keep it to his dying day.

"Yes. That's her." He looked at Bucky. "She was my first real friend… after the ice. I trust her. Like I trust you."

"Sometimes I worry about how willing you are to trust," Bucky said.

"Why? Do you know something about Natasha that I don't know?" he asked, bristling. He snorted like an enraged bull, and then relaxed. What did it matter now? He and Natasha would never be anything more than friends. He knew enough about her to be her friend. "Never mind."

"No, it's just… you trust broken people so easily," Bucky said, sounding casual though guarded. He thought about pressing him for information but decided against it. Bucky blinked. "You like her."

"Don't start—" his jaw clenched.

"Your biggest problem," Bucky said, "is that you are always so concern about others. You do everything for others. But the amount of times I know that you have been selfish and done something for yourself, I can count on my one hand that I have left."

"Buck—"

"So, give it to me straight, Steve. How do you feel about her?"

He gave a ragged sigh, running his hand through his hair and paced the room, before sitting on bed again. Where did he begin? How should he begin? What should he say about Natasha. The feel of her lips on his as they kissed on the escalator, the tenderness of the kiss she pressed to his cheek. All the almost kisses they had shared since she had joined. The almost moments that could have gone further, but they were both too afraid of—

What? Losing the other? Falling in love and having to watch the other die. If that was the case, then he should never had made friends. Never had made any emotional connections. It was dangerous and only lead to heartbreak. He looked at Bucky and sighed, "I miss her, Bucky." He looked out the window. Peggy, forgive me, but I need this. "I—"

The door hissed opened. T'Challa flanked by his head of security, a fierce woman named Okoye, along with Wanda and Sam came in. "One of Stark's jets is requesting entrance."

"So? Deny them," Bucky said. T'Challa gave him a look and Okoye lifted her chin.

"Did you hail them?" Steve asked, standing up. He looked around for some shoes, found them and put them on.

"We did," Okoye said, "the pilot requested to speak with you."

"Me?" Steve paused in tying the shoe. "Did they say why?"

"No."

Steve sucked in the corners of his mouth. Sometimes Okoye didn't give him enough information. "Alright." He finished putting his shoes on and stood up, gesturing to the door. T'Challa nodded and walked off. They waited for him to leave before following, Sam and Wanda flanking him and Bucky taking up the rear. "Were you two there?" he asked.

"It sounded like Vision," Wanda said, and he heard the hope in her voice. "But he's at the facility, I'm sure, and Tony would never just let him leave."

"Not with that rock in his forehead," Sam agreed. Steve nodded, trying to think who would have a Stark jet and requesting access into Wakanda.

"Could it be Stark?" Bucky asked, an edge to his voice. "Come to finish the job?"

"No," he said, "Tony knows when he's beaten and I'm sure someone would have talked some sense into him."

"Rhodey probably…" Sam muttered, and he noted the bitterness in his other friend's tone. He refrained from asking what that was about. The four-some fell into silence, following T'Challa and his entourage through the gleaming hallways of the royal palace to the control room. The doors hissed open to reveal a hidden technological marvel. It still took Steve's breath away at the high level of sophistication the Wakandans possessed. He looked at T'Challa, who nodded and gave the order to put the image up on screen.

"Vision!" Wanda shouted, rushing forward. The guards came, but at a gesture from T'Challa they backed down. "And Natasha. Steve!" Wanda turned to look at him. "She brought Vision!" The grin on her face threatened to split her face in half, tears shown in her eyes.

"This is Natasha Romanoff requesting entry," Natasha said into the head set as she flicked switches, one hand on the joystick. "I repeat: This is Natasha Romanoff requesting entry."

"She opposed me at the airport," T'Challa said, jerking his head to the screen. "Why should allow her into my country?"

Steve stared, joining Wanda at her side. Natasha was just like he remembered. The determine set of her jaw, the grace and poise of a dancer, the slight wave to her blonde hair. She looked up again, her green eyes bright as she held the jet level. "This is Natasha Romanoff, requesting entry."

"Steve, let her in. She brought Vision."

"Or Vision brought her," Sam said, "this could be a trap Steve. She did leave. What if she left to go back to Stark and now has a bunch of men in the back ready to arrest us all."

"She's on the run too, Sam! She told us that when she first found us. She helped Steve and Bucky escape."

"I know she helped Steve, Wanda, but… it doesn't change the fact that she allowed us to get tossed into that prison."

"She was bound by the Accords, she couldn't do anything unless she wanted to go to prison too."

"I need an answer," T'Challa interjected.

"Steve, she left to go find you. I know Sam and I didn't trust her at first, but… we work well together," Wanda said. "And she left us, but she's back now."

"Is Steve Rogers, there? If he is may I speak to him, it's important," Natasha asked.

"He never told us why she left, beyond 'personal reasons', Wanda," Sam countered.

"Because of me," he said, taking another step closer. Sam and Wanda stared at him, he ignored their looks. He couldn't stop staring at her face, the curve of her lips, looking ready to spring into a smirk or a tender smile. He could see the freckles that splashed across her nose. "She didn't leave because she was going to betray us. She left because she was scared."

"Oh, just let her in, I want to talk to Vision!" Wanda said, impatient.

"Is he… the red man… a person?" Bucky asked, eyes fixed on Vision and his unusual appearance. He had been wondering about that ever since he saw him at the airport.

"Android." Sam looked at him. "Long story."

"Okay."

"I'm here Natasha," he said, finding his voice. The smile threatening to burst on her face made his heart flutter.

She returned the smile. "Hi."

"Ma'am." His grin widening at that. "They want to know why you've come." He looked at T'Challa and the other Wakandans in the control room, and then at his friends. "Why have you come, Nat?"

There was a pause, her image flickering for half a heartbeat. She licked her lips, looking unsure. "I… I have something important to tell you, Steve."

He watched her flex her fingers on the joystick, heart thumping a sharp tattoo against his chest. The room narrowed to him and her. He wanted to ask her what she wanted to tell him, but his tongue stuck in his mouth. The hum of the advance machinery turning into a pleasant white noise.

"Captain?" T'Challa asked again, bringing him back to the present. Steve swallow. "I need a decision."

"Let her in." He tore away from the group and ran to the hanger bay; hearing T'Challa give the order as he ran out of the room.

* * *

The jet had landed by the time he got into the hanger bay, the flight crew bustling around it like a group of busy bees. None of the guards where around though, T'Challa having deemed that if he trusted Natasha Romanoff than he shall too. Steve paused briefly in his mad dash to orient himself as the jet's ramp hissed down. Vision floated out first, serene and ethereal as always. He'll let Wanda greet him. He saw her then, on the ramp. His heart leapt into his throat, forcing him to swallow.

"Natasha!" he shouted, running towards her, a boyish grin on his face his face. His hands felt clammy, butterflies in his stomach and his legs threatening to turn to jelly. "Natasha!" He couldn't stop smiling, he wanted to cry.

"Steve!" she was running towards him, a look between concern, shock and joy on her face. He opened his arms wide as they closed the gap, her lithe body folding itself into his broader one. He wrapped her in a hug; her hands were tugging on his face down towards her, her mouth slightly parted. He was shocked at first when she kissed him but sank into it.

They broke apart. He cupped her face, smoothing his thumbs over her cheeks. "Nat… you came. I… you came." He couldn't stop touching her face. She was real, she was here, and he was so in love with her that it almost felt like a dream; a dream that could actually be realized oppose to the one he still clung to. I need this Peggy, please, don't be mad, you will always hold a special place in my heart, but… I need this. He kissed her brow, just to reassure himself that she was real.

"I did." She blinked several times, sniffing softly. "Steve" — she patted his chest, thinking — "Steve, I love you."

* * *

 **Uh… yeah.**

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 **Nemo et Nihil**

 **PS: Updated things.**


	9. My Indigo

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _You don't have to love me; there's one thing you should know, my love will not unravel, it's unconditional, my indigo. Even when the heart won't it let show, you don't have say, to let me know, my indigo... — My Indigo_

* * *

The hum of the machines, the babble of the workers, Wanda's excited squeal as Vision drifted over to her. The vaulted ceiling of the hanger bay felt too high and he was too small. He stared at Natasha, leaning back against his clasped hands, her hands on his board chest. She was staring at him waiting for him to say something — anything. The silence between them was getting uncomfortable. He couldn't believe it. She loved him. _She loved him_. And he…

She sucked her tongue. "Well, I—"

"Nat, I love you too, but—"

"Oh good," she said and grabbed his face again for another kiss, but he pulled away, placing his hands on her shoulders. He focused on his breathing. He liked the feel of Natasha's lips on his, but now wasn't the time for kisses. No matter how much he wanted to kiss her. "Steve?"

"What's gotten into you?" he asked. "You leave weeks ago and then you show up here in Wakanda, professing you love me?" He rubbed his face with both hands. He felt like everything was spirally out of control. One moment they were shy and hesitant, an almost; now, they had put the pedal to the metal and going full speed into a relationship. It made his head spin. "This… this is a little much." He put his hands back on her shoulders, squeezing them. "I thought you wanted to apologize." There was so much he wanted to tell her. Bucky told him that he should be a bit more selfish, but how could he when there were so many more people that needed him. Bucky also told him Peggy would want him to live his life, but how could he live his life with someone else when he never got a chance to live it with her? He felt conscious of people staring at them. He wondered if the Wakandans knew that Natasha attacked their king.

He heard shouts, and the workers parted to make way for T'Challa and his entourage; Sam, Wanda, Vision and Bucky following behind the royal procession. The tall woman, Okoye came and pushed passed him, grabbing Natasha's wrist. "Hey, let go of me!" she swung her other fist, but Okoye caught it, kicking Natasha's legs to off balance her and forcing her to the ground. She yanked Natasha's head back by her hair as T'Challa walked up. Natasha thrashed, trying to break free. Okoye was stronger than she looked, able to maintain her hold on Natasha's hair and her grip on both of Natasha's wrists.

"Try anything and you'll regret it," she hissed. Natasha lips peeled back in a snarl, jerking as she tried to get free. Steve looked from the two women to T'Challa. The king had an impassive expression on his face, hands clasped behind his back. He glanced around once at the staring workers before settling his gaze on him.

"Let her go," Steve said, he swallowed as his hands balled into fists. He thought his willingness to allow Natasha in would defuse any lingering resentment. "Please." He felt Bucky and the others gather behind him. It was comforting to know he had friends at his back, but it would be impossible to fight through the entire Wakandan military, and Bucky couldn't leave.

"She opposed me, violated the Accords… twice," T'Challa said, gesturing to Natasha. "You make it very hard for anyone to trust you, Miss Romanoff." He paced before her, the unreadable expression never leaving his face. Steve ground his teeth, trying to figure out a way to defuse the situation before it got dicey.

"Kinda my thing — call off your wonder woman, T'Challa!" Natasha snarled.

"You will show the King of Wakanda, respect," Okoye growled, jerking Natasha's hair a bit more.

"I could call Secretary Ross," T'Challa said, rubbing his chin. Steve swallowed, unsure if the king's threat was real or not.

"Ross already had a little chat with me about that after everything happened — ow! — you'll regret that!" Natasha glared at Okoye. "I'm here because Steve said he may be here," she said.

"You are in no position to be making threats," Okoye said. She huffed. He growled, Wanda, Vision and Sam shifting behind him; Bucky was hanging back, watching everything. Natasha shrugged but Okoye's grip remained firm.

"She's with me," he said, looking at T'Challa. "She's with me and under my protection. I trust her." He unclenched his fists to show he was not going to attack, but he kept his body tense, ready to spring at a moment's notice. He had studied T'Challa's style during the spar, and he wasn't foolish enough to think T'Challa hadn't done the same. But even Tony needed FRIDAY to analyze his movements in order to counter him.

"She is in my country," T'Challa replied. "You are asking me to protect her, and I don't know if I can trust her." He glared at her and said something to Okoye. She let go of Natasha's hair and he grabbed her wrist. A collective hush fell over the hanger bay, only the sound of machinery and the waterfall outside the hanger bay doors echoed in the spacious hanger bay. All eyes were on the king and the small band of foreigners.

"Hurt her," he said, eyes chips of ice, "and it will end badly" — he looked at T'Challa — "I don't want to fight. We are all on the same side. I trust her." He didn't let go of Okoye's wrist. "You trust me, don't you?"

"I do," T'Challa said, pensive. Natasha snarled at him, venom in her gaze. Steve wished she'd back down, just this once and used diplomacy to get herself out of the situation. But then again, if she had done that, she wouldn't be the Natasha he knew and loved.

"Then trust me," he said, "you're offering Bucky asylum, as well as myself." T'Challa nodded, clasping his hands behind his back once more. Steve moved further between them without letting go of Okoye's wrist; the Wakandans muttered anxiously amongst themselves.

Vision pulled Wanda away, Sam followed suit; the workers began to crowd around as tempers rose. A keg of powder waiting for the spark. He didn't know if he could fight off T'Challa and his bodyguards if things came to blows. He didn't want to either, he liked T'Challa and felt he was a reasonable man. "I trust her," Bucky said, walking up. He pushed through the small crowd to the heart. He looked at them, Okoye barked a laugh, showing off sharp white teeth. "I trust her." Bucky stood at Natasha's other side, his hand on her shoulder.

Steve frowned. "Bucky, I got this," he said. "I appreciate the offer but, Natasha is here because of me."

" _Eto bogato, prishedsheye ot vas i ostayushcheyesya vne etogo_ ," Natasha growled, glaring at Bucky as she shrugged his hand off her shoulder. The Winter Soldier seemed unphased by her hostility. Steve looked between the two of them, surprised Bucky understood Russian in the first place.

" _Net. Ya vse ravno dolzhen tebe za Leningrad_ ," Bucky said. Natasha snarled at him, trying to break free of Okoye's grip to lunge at Bucky. His friend took a step back but didn't seem to be too afraid of Natasha. The warrior woman yanked her down.

"When did you learn Russian, Bucky?" he asked, staring, slack-jawed. Bucky ignored him.

" _Ne prinosite eto, osobenno pered Steve_ ," she said, glaring at Bucky. He had no idea what she said, but it involved him in some way. " _Ya lyublyu yego, i to, chto u nas bylo, zakonchilos'. Znayesh' chto. Tak chto ne podnimite nashe proshloye pered Steve, Bucky._ "

Bucky snorted, rolling his eyes and he got the impression that Bucky and Natasha knew each other more than what Natasha had originally told him when he came to kill him and Fury. He'd have to ask her about that later. "Nat—"

" _Da, ya znayu, no tebe vse ravno nuzhno skazat' yemu, Natasha_ ," Bucky cut him off. Natasha flushed and looked away from him.

" _Mne ne nuzhna vasha pomoshch'_ ," she grumbled.

" _Otkuda ya stoyu, ty delayesh'_." Bucky said. " _Kak i v Leningrad._ " His statement brought her glare back to him. She spat at his feet.

" _Idi k chertu!_ "

Bucky snorted, " _Net_."

Steve cleared his throat, confused about the entire thing. "Your Majesty, both Bucky and I trust her," he said and looked at Sam, who also nodded as did Wanda. "You can let he go now."

"I do not take orders from you," Okoye hissed, her eyes narrowed to slits.

"If I may intervene?" Vision said. "Miss Romanoff did not seek me out or nor did I leave my previous location in an effort to capture her and return her to the United States. She is trustworthy, Your Majesty. Mr. Rogers had informed her when they parted ways approximately six weeks earlier, that he may be here."

"I see," T'Challa said, "very well." He looked at Natasha. "Welcome to Wakanda, Miss Romanoff."

Steve let go of Okoye's wrist as T'Challa gave the woman a nod. Once free Natasha lunged for Bucky, but he grabbed her and pulled her into his chest, wrapping her up in his arms. She growled.

"Steve let go of me, I need to show that _malen'kiy ublyudok_ some manners about meddling in other people's business!" she growled, thrashing about, which only caused him to tighten his grip on her.

"That… that… he's my friend!" he said. "And I want you two to get along."

"I'll play nice," Bucky said. " _Skazhi yemu Natasha_." At that Natasha screamed, straining with all her might against his embrace, hellbent on hurting Bucky. Steve swallowed, wondering what Bucky and Natasha were talking about. Natasha glared at him, shouting at him again in Russian. Bucky snorted in amusement. He knitted his brows, flummoxed; something was going on between Natasha and Bucky and all he was concern about was when did Bucky learn Russian.

"Nat, calm down. Nobody is going to hurt you and you are not going to hurt Bucky," he said, lips brushing her ear. Her hair smelled of raspberries and mint. He bit back a soft groan, he missed the smell of her and even holding her in his arms like this made him think improper thoughts about taking a shower with her or snuggling in bed with her. Then Peggy's smile slipped into his mind and all thoughts of Natasha vanished. He huffed. "I'm going to let you go now."

"Yeah, yeah." She pulled free once his grip slackened but she didn't attack anyone. She folded her arms beneath her breasts, he glanced at her breasts and his gazed lingered for a heartbeat too long as his mind began to wander. "Steve." Her voice cut through his thoughts like a knife and he looked up at her, cheeks and ears a bright pink. She dropped her arms, rolling her eyes. " _Muzhchiny._ " She jerked her head towards T'Challa.

"Sorry," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his head and looking away. He never was that rude as to stare unabashed at a woman's breasts. Even with Peggy, he was never that uncouth. He wondered if the 21st Century was starting to get to him. Manners had taken a nose dive during his time in the ice.

"Steve," T'Challa said, "as she is with you, she'll be staying in your suite of rooms. In the bedroom down the hall."

"Oh, thank you. I appreciate that." He looked at Natasha. The workers peeled off to go back to work; Sam, Vision and Wanda came back now that the danger had passed. She smiled at the king and T'Challa gave her a solemn nod.

"Wonder how long it'll take before she's in his bed every night?" Sam muttered, loud enough for Steve to hear. His ears went pink again.

"Sam," Wanda chastised.

"Twenty bucks says it's less than twenty-four hours," Bucky said, a cocky lopsided smirk on his face.

"Fifty and you have yourself a deal," Sam said and held out his hand, Bucky bobbed his head from side to side before grabbing Sam's hand.

"Deal."

"Wanda," Vision began, "are they placing wagers on how soon Mr. Rogers and Miss Romanoff will have sexual intimacy?"

"Vision!" Wanda gasped, her cheeks going from pink to white to pink again. "We don't talk about that stuff out loud!" she fixed Sam and Bucky with a glare.

"Do you wish to engage in coital activities with me? Even though I lack the proper anatomical structures for such things?" Vision asked.

Wanda froze, going completely red. "Enough questions, Viz. Come, I need to explain to you about social norms and proper manners when it comes to erm… bedroom activities." She led the robotic man off. He could only stare at the three of them, his eyes sliding over to look at Natasha, who was chewing on a nail appearing oblivious to the entire thing. The flush crept up his neck again and he tried to ignore the fact that his pants had become a bit uncomfortable.

"I'm sure Natasha would like to go to her room and get cleaned up," Steve said, trying to get out of the awkward situation before he or his friends could make it anymore awkward. He started to think about things that didn't involve Natasha, which suddenly seemed nigh impossible to do. He finally settled on imagining his old colonel in one of the Captain America Girls' outfits singing the stupid Star Spangle Banner Man song. It seemed to be working. "I'm sorry about earlier." He smiled at T'Challa, the king seemed to have ignored the entire bit with Vision.

"It is understandable. You would not be Captain America without being loyal to your friends," T'Challa said and looked over at Natasha. "And I hope your judgement is well placed." The two shared a look, and he couldn't tell if it was thinly veiled animosity or some understanding between them.

Natasha arched a brow, pinning him with a glare. He swallowed conjuring the mental imagine of his colonel again. "It is," he said. "C'mon Nat, I'll show you to our suite of rooms."

* * *

Natasha closed her eyes allowing the warm water to cascade over her. It was one of those fancy waterfall showers and it felt amazing after months on the road with sporadic bathing. She took her time, pampering herself beneath the warm water. Once out, she rubbed her body with an unscented lotion and toweled her hair. She felt human again; she wrung her hair out again with the towel before mussing it. Wet locks fell down, curling about her face. She was in Wakanda. She told Steve how she felt, and he did too — in a way (she got the feeling he was holding back). Now they just had to figure out their next move, both as a team and as a couple. She smiled, she and Steve were a couple, the fact alone sent a tiny thrill along her spine. I wonder how he is in bed?

Bucky and Sam had been placing bets on that very topic and she was unsure who she wanted to win. Maybe she'll hold out and jump Steve's bones after the forty-eight-hour mark, just to watch them groan at how she thwarted their plans. "Natasha?" a soft knock sounded on the door. Sam may win after all; this was the bathroom connected to Steve's room. He had generously offered up his bathroom when she made a comment about being covered in grime. Plus, she had a feeling he wanted her to be close.

"I'll be out in a minute," she said, tossing the towel into the hamper and putting on some clean clothes. She didn't know how the palace staff got flowy pants and a light top that fit her on such short notice, but she wasn't going to question it. Once dressed she opened the door; Steve was barefoot, dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, his normal collared button-down shirt was open, his t-shirt was fitting enough that she didn't need to imagine what was underneath.

She had always found him physically desirable, but now, coupled with her love for him, she found him irresistible. A seductive gleam sparkled in her eyes and she licked her lips, knowing Steve's eyes followed the tip of her pink tongue. He shook himself, realizing what he was doing and looked away with an awkward cough. "Um."

She walked passed him to the window. "Impressive view," she said, watching the jungle. "Weirdest thing you seen on your window?"

"A giant spider." He shuddered, joining her. "I didn't… care for that too much."

She glanced at him, watching him reach for her shoulder, think better of it, and shoved his hand into his pocket. "Your beard got thicker."

"I need to get it trimmed. It's getting annoying," he said, scratching at it. She smiled. "O-Of course if you like it, I can keep it."

"Maybe trim it up a bit, maintain it." She threw her shoulders back. "But it looks nice. Like your hair, too." It'll give me something to hold to during sex. She gave him a wry grin. He gave her a tiny smile in exchange. She heard him sit on the bed.

"Nat… what are you doing here?" he asked. "I thought— when you left… I thought I'll never see you again."

She turned to face him. It was moments like this when the persona of Captain America fell away and beneath it was Steve Rogers, a kid from Brooklyn. Despite his apollonian physique and herculean strength, Steve could be so incredibly human. It was something that drew her to him; his humility. She walked to him, her knees wedging his apart as she wrapped her arms around his head, allowing him to rest his cheek against her stomach and wrap his arms around her thighs. She ran her hands through his hair, the tension leaving his shoulders. "You can be such a puppy sometimes," she teased. He gave a grunt and hugged her tighter. "I came back."

"I know but why."

"Because I love you," she said, smiling. It felt nice saying it aloud, even nicer that it was to him. She lifted his chin, so he could look at him. "I love you, Steve."

He was silent for several long moments. She almost worried he didn't love her back. "Natasha, I… us… we…" he licked his lips. She frowned, unsure why he was balking. Doubt began to creep up her spine. Maybe she had misread his body language. She wasn't used to making mistakes — reading people was her bread and butter — but sometimes it did happen.

"Steve, I… don't you love me too?" she asked. He said it in the hanger bay. She tried to prepare herself for his rejection on the flight to Wakanda, but never in her wildest dreams would she expect Captain America to _reject her_. "Steve?"

"What was that about? Between you and Bucky?" he asked. She frowned, pulling away from him. She glared and returned to the window. "Nat," he joined her again, "he stuck his neck out for you. Which is odd considering you two have both tried to kill each other." He didn't touch her. She wasn't watching the jungle, but rather she was thinking about that time in St. Petersburg (it still amused her that Bucky called it Leningrad, even though the name was changed in '91). The mission had taken a turn for the worse, he had shown up and saved her. That night she had shown him just how thankful she was to him for saving her life — physically. It was a sensation she'd never forget, the feel of his hands on her body: one flesh, one metal; one warm, one cold. Their romance lasted a few months, it was brief, passionate and somehow there was still a spark between them. Well… on Bucky's end at least, she couldn't deny that she caught the flash of jealousy in his eyes. She sucked on her tongue.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, not looking at Steve. "The only time I've ever seen Bucky was when he tried to kill me. And then he tried to kill us."

"Okay, then how does he know Russian?"

"He was controlled by the Russian branch of Hydra, you read his file." She turned to face him then. "Steve, I don't want to talk about Bucky. There is nothing going on between us. Nothing has gone between us. I love you."

"If you love me, you'd be honest with me."

"Oh, like you've been honest with me," she said, glaring at him. He had been honest with her. "You still love her, don't you," she said, her tone accusatory. His flinch was all she needed to confirm it. To her surprise, she wasn't upset, in fact she understood. Peggy Carter was his first love, and even though she was dead, a part of Steve will always be with her.

"We never needed to discuss past relationships before Natasha, because us being in a relationship was never on the table," he said. She swallowed, damn he was sexy when he was ticked off. It reminded her of that time he caught her at the hospital and had shoved her against the wall. If they weren't running from Hydra, she would have probably tried to seduce him. "I thought… I thought that was clear."

"Well life is a game changer," she said, tossing some hair over her shoulder. She'll need to cut it again and do another color treatment. "Why are you hesitating now Steve? Back in Armenia you were—"

"I don't know," he said, shoulders slumping as the anger left him. He glanced out at the jungle, studying the reflections in the glass. "I guess I gave up when you left. I never thought… you'd come back."

She cupped his cheek, his beard wiry beneath her hand, she ran her thumb along his cheekbone, smiling as he leaned into her touch. "I'm here now," she said, "I came back."

He took his hand from her cheek. "I know." He kissed her palm, running his thumb along her hand. "I know and I'm thankful."

"But?" she gave him an imploring look. Don't break my heart, Steve, I'd hate to have to kill you. She gave him a hopeful look, wanting him to go one. He closed her hand, squeezing her fingers.

"I need some time to think." He pulled away from her. "I'm sorry, Nat."

"Oh." She took a step back. "Steve—" she exhaled sharply, clenching and unclenching her fists. "I—"

His eyes grew wide and a series of unintelligent stammers fell from his lips. "Natasha, I love you… but I need time to think about _us_." He took her shoulders and she looked at him, the sincerity in his blue eyes was a little much. "I'm not sure if… this is the right time for a relationship. I need to think about that."

"Oh." She blinked, she felt mollified but only a bit. It still stung. A half-rejection was still a rejection in a sense. "I see." She gave him her best seductress smile, trailing her hand along his chest. "I may be able to convince you otherwise." She watched his breath catch in his throat, but he grabbed her hand and kissed each one of her fingertips, eyes smoldering like the noonday sky on a cloudless day. Her mouth was dry, legs weak and her womanhood moist.

"No." He smiled at her and she bit back a groan. He stepped back, and she watched him go.

* * *

 **The Russian translation (I'm not about to ask my brother to translate dialogue for a fanfic, so sorry for anything being off)**

 **That's rich coming from you and stay of out of this. –** _ **Eto bogato, prishedsheye ot vas i ostayushcheyesya vne etogo.**_

 **No. I owe you for Leningrad anyway. –** _ **Net. Ya vse ravno dolzhen tebe za Leningrad**_

 **Don't bring that up, especially in front of Steve –** _ **Ne prinosite eto, osobenno pered Steve**_

 **I love him, and what we had is over now. You know that. So don't bring up our past in front of Steve, Bucky –** _ **Ya lyublyu yego, i to, chto u nas bylo, zakonchilos'. Znayesh' chto. Tak chto ne podnimite nashe proshloye pered Steve, Bucky.**_

 **Yes, I know but you still need to tell him, Natasha –** _ **Da, ya znayu, no tebe vse ravno nuzhno skazat' yemu, Natasha**_

 **I don't need your help –** _ **Mne ne nuzhna vasha pomoshch'**_

 **From where I'm standing you do –** _ **Otkuda ya stoyu, ty delayesh'**_

 **Kak i v Leningrade. – Just like that time in Leningrad.**

 **Go to hell. –** _ **Idi k chertu!**_

 **Tell him Natasha. –** **Skazhi yemu**

 **Save an author; leave a review**

 **Nemo et Nihil**

 **PS: Fixed somethings.**

 **Next chapter: Something Wild**


	10. Something Wild

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _If you're lost out where the lights are blinding_ _; caught in all, the stars are hiding; that's when something wild calls you home, home. If you face the fear that keeps you frozen, chase the sky into the ocean; that's when something wild calls you home, home. — Lindsey Stirling featuring Andrew McMahon_

* * *

She walked with a clip to her gate as she went to Bucky's room, the palace staff helping her when she needed it. It was near the medical wing, in case he had a mental break and needed to be contained. She tapped her foot with impatience as the door hissed open, she stormed up to Bucky, who was playing cards with Sam. "Why did you have to bring _that_ up!" she snapped, glaring up.

"Hello to you too, doll," he said, calm as a still pond. Sam looked up from his cards, eyeing her uneasily. "You're move." The door hissed closed behind her.

"Out." She fixed Sam with a glare and the man swallowed, muttered an apology and something about a rain check and left the room. Bucky set his cards down and peeked at Sam's hand.

"Thanks Natasha, I would've lost." He gave her a tiny smile as she took Sam's empty seat. "Poker?" He gestured to the cards. She glared at him as he gathered the cards, wondering what game he was playing by bringing up Leningrad in front of Steve. Not that Steve understood what the hell they were staying in Russian, but _still_. She had hoped to never bring that up, to never have that conversation with him. Bucky had shattered all of that. She let out a deep long sigh, a serpentine smile spreading across her lips.

"I love too," she said, offering him her hand. He put the cards in and she shuffled quickly and set up the little table between them. She looked at her two cards, a 5 of Diamonds and a Queen of Hearts. Hopefully, not a shitty hand. Bucky rolled his shoulders, his face impassive. "How've you been?"

"Y'know," he said, "could be better." He set his cards on his lap and tossed two chips in. She blinked, adding two chips of her own. She peeled the top card off and put the second card down. 6 of Diamonds. She may not have a terrible hand after all. "You?" She caught his gaze her question in her eyes. He blinked and looked at his hand.

"Alright, can't complain," she said, tone pleasant. Bucky's room was sparse and bare, with a few books on the shelves. She didn't catch the titles. He tossed two more chips in. "Confident?" She added two of her own. He awkwardly scratched his brow with his stump.

"It's not real money, just plastic chips," he said, "you know that." He looked at her, his posture telling her all she needed to know. A small frown creased her lips as she dealt the next card: Ace of Spades. Her chances of winning plummeted.

"You never told me what I'd get if I won," she said. She added four chips to his two. "I hope you have a good hand, Bucky." It pleased her as he grumbled, tossing in an extra two chips.

"What makes you think you'll win?" he asked, as she dealt the last card, the Jack of Clubs. She frowned, she had no chance of winning. She scanned Bucky's face, unable to tell if he had a good hand or not.

"It is just fake money," she said, tossing her cards down. "I fold."

"Oh good," he said, tossing down his cards to reveal a pair of aces, "I win." The corner of his mouth tugged up in a half smirk as he pulled their pot towards him. He leaned back in his seat. "We can play another game if you want. May get lucky."

She gave him a beatific smile. "Pass." She leaned back, hands on her knees and she sighed. Her body was a taunt bowstring, her original anger now a warm smolder in the pit of her stomach. "Let's talk?"

"No."

"Bucky," she chided, "you don't even know what I'm going to ask." She got up and sat next to him, pressing her hip against his. "Why are you being so standoffish?"

"Like you said, it's over between us," he said, shifting away. She looked away, realizing that charming the answer out of him wasn't going to work. "You need to tell him."

"And you need to tell me why you even brought it up?"

"Leningrad?" He gave her a puzzled look. "Well, in Leningrad you were in a pickle and I got you out, just like I did this time."

"Vision convinced T'Challa I wasn't going to turn everyone in." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Not you. So no, it was not like Leningrad."

"I still think my opinion helped."

"Why do you want me to tell Steve anyway?" she asked. "It's over between us. I don't need to tell him every detail of my past. If he's curious it's all over the internet." She folded her arms over her chest. "Thank you very much."

"You need to be honest with him. Steve values honest, if you want your relationship—"

"Whoever said I wanted something long term?" she lied. A muscle in his jaw twitched, eyes hardening. She gave him the same hard look, daring him to do something.

"You break Steve's heart" — he jerked his thumb across his throat — " _Ya sam tebya ub'yu,_ " he growled. She kept her face expressionless. She knew Bucky enough to know that such a threat was not an ideal one.

"I have no intention of breaking Steve's heart," she hissed. "I love him."

"Uh-huh. You know they pulled me out of cryo because he showed up. He was distraught, last time I remember seeing him like that was when his mother died. So, I question your love."

"I would never hurt Steve," she said, standing up. "Regardless of what you think."

"Then tell him to truth about us or I'll do it," he said. She blanched, leaning in close to him, hands on either side of his hips, their noses almost touching.

"Don't." She glared at him. He held her gaze, steady as a wolf across the ice. She swallowed, the tension between them thick and palpable, she broke the staring contest, but Bucky grabbed her chin. He didn't say anything just ran the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. Her breath caught in her throat. "Don't," she breathed, a tremble ran through her body. "I love him, Bucky."

"I miss us," he whispered, voice soft. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the memories. The clandestine meetings, the feel of his hands on her skin: the cold metal and the warm skin. The way he held her after sex, and the searing kiss goodbye as they parted ways, so the KGB didn't report their unauthorized relationship to the Kremlin. She loved the thrill of their romance. "Being with you… were the few happy memories I had." The melancholy in his eyes tugged at her heart.

"Bucky, we can't," she whispered. "I love Steve, you know that."

"I know, _lisichka_ , I know."

"Don't call me that." She tried to pull away, but his grip was strong. She rested her hands on his knees. "Please if Steve comes back…"

"Right," he said, and dropped his hand. She stood up and put some distance between them, her back to him. "Sorry."

She nodded, staring at the wall. "I don't want to… sometimes I think he deserves someone better than me." She looked up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns. A clock ticked somewhere, and she was acutely aware of Bucky's stare on her back. She rolled her shoulders, she didn't like people staring at her back. "I just thought— I mean I understand why he needs to think about _us_ , but I thought—" she swallowed. She would not cry in front of Bucky. She would not.

"Steve sees the good in people, always had. Unless they are a bully. He's also old fashioned, and wears his heart on his sleeve, sometimes it's painful how easily his emotions come through. He's just bad at expressing it half the time." Bucky chuckled a little bit. "You should have seen him back during the war, making puppy eyes at Peggy, but he was too shy to go up and ask her for a dance."

"I know," she whispered. She felt his tears on her neck as she held him after Peggy's funeral. He almost crushed her, holding her so tight. "I just thought that if I came back—"

"You could pick up where you two left off? Good luck." Bucky tapped his fingers against his knee. She turned to watched him, the silence between them pensive, as if someone was holding their breath, awaiting something to happen. "I still love you," Bucky said, his voice soft and sad; broke the silence. It sounded as if he threw a glass, a soft tinkling sound in her head. She closed her eyes, not wanting it to be real.

"Bucky…"

"I still love you. More like… I love what we once had, the nostalgia of it all." He gave a half shrug. "I'm also a bit jealous that you're with Steve." He sighed, looking away. "Did you ever love me?"

"Once" — a fleeting smile appeared on her lips — "when it was real between us. But now, no. I don't. I love Steve. I love him like I never loved anyone else."

"Okay." He gave an accepting nod. "Promise me you'll tell him?" he asked. She swallowed, tapping her foot in a nervous manner.

"I…" she glanced at her feet, mulling over her options. "I promise." She rubbed her temples. "Is this why you brought up Leningrad? To get me to agree to tell Steve?"

Bucky barked a laugh. "No, I actually do owe you for Leningrad—"

"St. Petersburg."

"Whatever, same city." He licked his lips. "I told you I owed you for saving my sorry ass."

She nodded, looking at the ground. "Well…" she let the word hang in the air, the silence between them starting to get uncomfortable. She had her answer and now she had a promise to keep. Though she had no idea how she'd keep it.

"The sooner the better," Bucky said, "especially if you two are planning to get serious."

"I know," she snapped. "I just don't like… people twisting my arm to get me to spill my secrets." She glared at him. "You made the bet with Sam. If you're worried about then that's your own damn fault."

"Listen, Natasha" — he leaned forward, pointing a finger at her — "Steve will risk his life to save thousands, but he will _die_ for you. You are his one weakness—"

"I can take care of myself, Steve knows that. I doubt he'll throw himself into the maws of death for me."

"That's not the point! He'll lay his heart bare for you, so you better realize that right quick Romanoff. You want a relationship with Steve, you better come clean to him about a lot of things. And one of the first things should be us."

"I hate you."

"Love you too, doll."

She stalked towards the door, kicking the little table over, scattering the cards and plastic chips. "Enjoy your game of fifty-two card pick up with one hand." She stalked towards the exit.

"Thanks," he huffed and began to agonizing process of picking up cards with one hand. She heard him mutter a curse as the door hissed shut. She rubbed her temples and had no idea where to look for Steve. Something told her he'd come to her when he was ready to talk. She looked down the hall way, nervous energy in her system. A good work out in the gym may help. She frowned, punching would not settle her mind, she needed something with precision. A smile came to her face and she headed to her room to get her old CD Walkman.

* * *

The punching bag went flying across the room, sand spilling out. His chest rose and fell, sweat glistening on his brow. The ache in his muscles was familiar and a good enough distraction from the conflicting emotions he was trying to deal with. He left the punching bag and went to get another one. He hung it up with a soft grunt, watching it swing as he backed up. He shuffled his feet before shifting his weight to the balls of his feet and began to pummel the punching bag with a series of rapid jabs. He tried to string together some different combos, to make it harder for FRIDAY to analyze his movements, if he ever fought Tony again.

His thoughts drifted to Natasha — he slammed his fists into the bag, grunting with each blow — her lips, her smile, the way her kisses lingered on his lips. He ached to be close to her, to hold her. The way she laughed and quirked her smiles, with a mischievous twinkle always gleaming in her eyes. He growled, throwing more punches at the bag. How could this have happened? When did this happen? — with each punch he could smell the leather of the bag, feel the give of the sand beneath; his heart pounding against his ribcage as he worked his muscles into a steady state of exhaustion — when he first met her, he got the impression that she was standoffish and didn't trust easily. Then Fury had the brilliant idea of assigning her as his 21st Century liaison (Tony had generously volunteered but was shot down). She had driven him to Peggy's nursing home a few times. He had called her in the middle of the night a couple of times, the nightmares being too much to handle and she had patiently listened to him ramble about everything he lost. In return he was there for her when she needed it, answering his door in the middle of the night to see Natasha in pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, looking small and vulnerable, her skin stark white and eyes wide like a frightened doe; with nary a word, he allowed her to come in, fixed her some tea and simply sat next to her listening to the silence until she felt comfortable enough to discuss (or not) whatever was bothering her. It began as a tentative friendship, that only grew closer and deeper when they had to destroy Shield to stop Hydra.

Her friendship helped with the fact that Peggy had moved on — only a damnable fool would expect a woman to wait seventy years for a date — yet coming to terms with that fact had been harder than he imagined. Logically, he knew Peggy had moved on as soon as he stumbled into a very different New York City. The bright lights and honking car horns and the _noise_. So much noise. Not that New York wasn't noisy during his era but there was so much _more noise_ : from airplanes to the hum of machinery to the cars to the electronics. Noise noise noise _noise_! It had shocked him, sending him back to the Hydra base where he found Bucky and the 107th. He felt like a lost boy and all he wanted was to go home. Finding Peggy wasting away in a nursing home, her mind slipping away from her — he bit his lip as he pummeled the bag, the sting of tears in his eyes that he could easily lay and say was sweat — it wasn't fair. It wasn't right that after all this time, when he finally comes back that they'd lose each other again, that they'd never get their dance. And that was the crux of his dilemma. He loved Natasha, yet he was afraid to move on. If he surrendered and let Peggy go then there would be no turning back, no hope that he could go back and stop the Red Skull before it was too late and have that future he wanted with Peggy. So he compromised (at least he viewed it as a compromise), he loved Natasha just enough to easy his heart, but squirreled the rest of it away with his memories of Peggy and the dead dream he clung to like a starving fool. With a cry, he punched the bag and sent it flying, chest heaving as it made a dull thud against the floor, sand spilling from the broken seams. He covered his face with his hands, gasping as the maelstrom of emotions raged within him; he raked his hands through his hair before retrieving the bag. He stooped, grabbing the bag.

Movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye and he let go of punching bag, a few grains of sand spilling from the broken seam at the top. He squinted, trying to make out who was in the other room. It looked like the person was dancing? Curious, he went over to the room, grabbing a towel on his way to mop the sweat from his face. He stood by the entrance, just out of sight of whomever was in there.

It was Natasha, dressed in yoga pants, with a sports bra and a tank top, and old CD Walkman clipped to her hip and satin ballet slippers on her feet, the pastel pearlescent pink of the ribbons gleamed against her skin in the low light. She had pulled her short blonde hair into a small ponytail, and the headphone cords clipped to the strap of her tank top. He watched her.

She danced with such grace and poise, her face a mask of utter concentration. Tony had taken them to the ballet one December for _The Nutcracker_ ; he didn't remember Natasha going. When he asked why she had skipped out on the team-bonding evening, she gave a vague excuse, which he didn't press her further. Watching her dance now, maybe this was why she didn't want to watch someone else do ballet, because she could do it better.

He watched her, lost in her movements: the leaps and pirouettes, the fluttering steps done on her tip toes, the perfect splits, and how she seemed to return to her feet in the same fluid motion, only to grab her ankle and effortlessly lift it over her head. It moved something deep inside him, tormenting his inner artist; his fingers twitched, he wanted to draw her and capture her beautiful swan like grace forever. It was like watching a dragonfly dart about, no movement wasted. She grabbed her foot as she balanced on her toes, only to let go and twirl, her foot placed perfectly against her knee. He inched closer, wondering what she was listening to. He wondered if the others knew she could dance like this. Maybe Clint? This must be why she's so good in a fight. He nodded as she sank down with another perfect split before coming back and leaping across the room.

He inched closer, his foot catching on something near the door. It came crashing down, echoing in the room and breaking the still silence. Dust motes danced in the thin stream of dying sunlight and Natasha came to a spinning halt as she removed her headphones. Her chest rose and fell, and she pinned him to place with a glower. He swallowed, nervous and awkward. "Sorry."

"You make a terrible spy," Natasha quipped, as she settled her headphone around her neck. "Always crashing about, sometimes I wonder if you realize you're six-two and two hundred forty pounds."

He flushed. "Yeah," he mumbled, "sometimes I still think I'm a ninety-pound asthmatic kid and then I break something and realized that I'm not." He gave a weak laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean in the beginning, I did. Not anymore. I'm pretty aware of how strong I am, that I'm taller… bulkier. But before… when I first got outta the pod… I felt taller and I could leap clean over a fence and—" he stopped, looking at his feet. He could hear Peggy telling him he had no idea how to talk to women.

She smiled at him, bemusement in her eyes and he felt his blush deepen. God, this was awkward. "What are you doing down here?" she asked.

"I was uh… relieving stress and then I saw you—"

"You watched me dance?" her eyes widened slightly. He nodded, feeling like a boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar. Her jaw clenched, and he felt like he stepped over some line. "Why?"

"I… saw movement and I thought… well…" he trailed off with a shrug. "You're memorizing." He looked her up and down, the light sheen of sweat, the rise and fall of her chest. That maelstrom of conflicting emotions returned again to batter his weary soul. He felt it, how they could be so much more if he only gave himself fully to him. But that involved letting Peggy go and whenever that came up he balked. She was willing; she came back to him after all. He reached for her, wanting to touch her but withdrew his hand, afraid he was invading her personal space. "Sorry," he muttered. "I didn't… I didn't mean to intrude like that."

"Gimme your hand," she said, holding out her hand. He laid his hand in hers and she unwound his wrapping. "It was coming undone." She rewrapped it. "You need to make it nice and tight." She pulled the clothe tight. He winced a bit, and she tucked the end in to secure it. "Like that."

He flexed his hand as he gave her the other one to rewrap. "Thanks." He studied her face, noting the lines of concertation on her brow, how she bit her lip as she worked. "I love you," he whispered. So romantic. He frowned when the voice in his head sounded like Peggy's snarky quip. He didn't want to think about her right now. No, he wanted to live — for once — in the moment. Natasha smiled, looking up at him as if he was the one beautiful thing left in the world. She pulled the towel from around his neck to wipe his face.

"I love you too, Steve," she said, her voice soft. He licked her lips, wanting to draw her close and kiss her. She pulled away and he swallowed, a strange guarded look in her eyes. The pain in her green eyes made his heart ache and he wished he could take away all her pain and suffering, take it all into himself and hold it for her. He was strong enough to bear another cross, and he wanted it to be hers. "Steve, there's something we need to talk about." She hung her head.

"I want us to be… _us_ ," he blurted out. She jerked her head up, eyes wide and face a bit pale. He rolled his shoulders, he was already committed, might as well finish it. "I thought about it and… I'm tired of dancing around how we feel. We make a good team." He ran his hand through his hair. "Why do you think I turned down all those women you tried to set me up with?"

"You called Sharon."

"Yeah, I did," he said. He took her hands, squeezing her fingers. "It didn't feel… she wasn't the right partner I've been looking for." Peggy, please… I swear I still love but I need this. I want this… please, I hope you can forgive me. He dipped his head and caught Natasha's lips. It was sweet and tender; her arms snaking around his neck as he cradled her head with his hand, his other hand settling on her hip. They pulled away, their foreheads touching. "I want this."

"I want this too." A tiny smile spread across her face, fingers threading his bread. He got lost in her eyes and for a moment he saw a future; a home, a child and happiness… peace. He stroked her cheek, a boyish grin spreading across his face. "New Jersey is a terrible honeymoon destination," he said. The scent of her: mint and raspberries, mingled with her sweat and natural musk was intoxicating. It felt like he was drowning in it and coupled with the lingering feeling of her lips on his, a soft animalistic growl bubbled in his throat.

She laughed. "Really? I thought it may be rather romantic," she quipped.

"No, it's a terrible place." A smile tugged at his lips. "Trust me, I'm a New Yorker." He nuzzled her nose, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. He cupped her face and kissed her again, his thumb stroking her cheekbone, his other hand trailing down her neck, coming to rest on her shoulder. His lips massaged hers, a soft sigh escaping her lips and he slipped his tongue in. She wrapped her arms around his neck to pull him closer. He pulled away, breathless and wanting.

"I believe you." She stroked him behind his ear with her thumb, smiling. "Brooklyn boy," she purred, rolling the R just enough to send a pleasurable shiver down his spine.

"Good," he said, a smoldering grin spreading across his face, pulling her flush against his body. It felt nice holding her like this, his hands roaming her body. She ground her hips against him, panting into his ear as his lips pressed searing kisses to her throat. He groaned loudly.

"Maybe we should go shower," she said in a seductive tone.

"Uh… yeah," he agreed, she walked off, and he trailed her like a lost puppy.

* * *

 **Steve is referencing that he's from the state of New York. And there's like a rivalry between New Jersey and New York. Irunno, I'm a West Coast girl. :P**

 **I'm sorry to everyone, promising them sex in this chapter…**

 **BUT IT IS THE NEXT CHAPTER!**

 **I know, I know. But I want to do this right and I just felt like I'd be forcing things if I kept going plus I'm fucking tired, pushing these chapters out daily for you people.**

 **I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

 **Also, during the part where Steve was thinking about kissing (or rather people he has kissed), I kept replaying that horrible Sharon/Steve kiss in my head and wtf it is so fucking left field. Like I can't even… my word. Some Sharon/Steve fan on tumblr tried to tell me that it makes sense because "subtext". _Subtext_ my fucking ass! There was no damn subtext. **

**Peggy there was subtext. The way he looked at her, the fact he had her picture in his compass. There was so much more believability between Peggy and Steve, then Sharon and Steve.**

 **And Natasha and Steve… fucking hell, I was Infinity War and I knew they were more than just buddies. When I found out that the general assumption about Sam saying: "Well this is awkward" when Bruce showed up was because Steve and Nat are dating my brain went "omg, yes!" Because daaaamn. Power couple anyone? So, the fact that I have never seen any of the movies, go see Infinity War, am convinced Steve and Nat are dating says A LOT. And then I go back and watch the movies and… there is no fucking subtext between Steve and Sharon!**

 **Okay, rant over.**

 ** _Ya sam tebya ub'yu – I'll kill you myself_**

 ** _Lisichka – Russian pet name meaning little fox_**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Note: The reason why the Russian is anglicized and not in Cyrillic is because nobody can read fucking Cyrillic unless you actually are Russian. So anglicization or maybe it's romanization because our alphabet is based off of the Latin one… Either way, it makes it look nicer with the rest of the text instead HERE'S A BUNCH OF RUSSIAN NOBODY CAN READ! :)**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	11. Come Cover Me

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

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 _Come cover me with you, for the thrill till you will take me in. Come comfort me in you, young love must live twice only for us. For me, for you — time devours passion's beauty! With me, with you in war for the love of you. — Nightwish_

* * *

Steve's sudden confession had spoiled her own, and then his chivalry had spoiled her plot of making love to him in the shower. She couldn't believe how awkward he was being about this. She was laying in his bed — naked — and he still had his boxers and t-shirt on and was staring at the ceiling. She definitely did not imagine this going in the direction it had. "Steve." She rolled onto her side, propping her head up with her hand, he gave a little hum as he looked at her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He didn't look at her. "Why do you ask."

"Because you refuse to look at me, for starters." She narrowed her eyes at him. The sun was starting to set, the golden orange light made his hair and beard brighter. It drew her to him, as if he was an angel descended from Heaven. She shuddered, watching as he swallowed. It was too tempting, and she leaned over — nonchalant — and kissed his neck. He gasped in surprise.

"Natasha?" he kept his eyes glued to her face. She gave him her best seductress smile, her eyes hooded and a hand snaked its way up his stomach, pushing his shirt up as it went. He felt like how she imagined him: warm, firm and strong. "Wh-What are you doing?" he asked, his voice catching in his throat.

"Have you ever been with a woman?" she purred, allowing her Russian accent to appear. She found that men seem to find a Russian accent erotic and she had a few people tell her it made her voice huskier.

Even in the gloaming she could see his blush as he looked away, gulping audibly. "N-No. I haven't." He refused to meet her eyes. "I've… I've been waiting f-for marriage." Ever the gentleman, he removed her hand from his chest and gently pushed it back to her, careful to not touch her breast. "I'm sorry."

"Oh." She felt a sudden wave of guilt. She loved Steve so much and this was going to be his first time. She had too many previous partners. She felt bad that she couldn't have the same thrill of first love with him. "I—"

"I know," he said. She nodded and leaned over to kiss him. "I'm almost a hundred years old and I've never made love to a woman." He grinned, though she could tell his ears were still pink. "Oldest virgin in history."

She laughed. "Maybe." This wasn't how she was hoping it was going to go and realizing that she'll have to convince him to break something he clearly felt was of great moral importance. "Steve, make love to me."

"What? But we aren't married!" He sat up, looking at her only to look away when he realized she was still naked (though he did stare for a heartbeat too long at her breasts). "God frowns upon sexual relations outside of marriage. I can't… it would be immoral and improper."

She slid her hand along his jaw and cupped his cheek, turning his head so he could look at her. The kiss was sweet and tender, full of love and a hint of desire. He chased her lips when she pulled away. "I don't want to spend my life with anyone but you." She kissed him again, his hands finding her hips.

"Natasha," he whispered against her lips, his blue eyes half-lidded. Kissing him, she slipped a leg over his lap and seated herself comfortably there. "Natasha, what are you doing?"

"I'm trying to seduce you," she said as she pressed kisses to his throat and pressing her breasts against his chest and ground her hips against him. He groaned at that and she sucked on his neck, nipping it. She wondered if a hickey will show up the next day or if his super soldier serum would have it healed before the dawn. "Is it working?"

"Uh-huh." He swallowed thickly and looked at her. "Natasha, I'm…"

"Say no and I'll stop," she said, watching the two desires war within him, he looked away.

"No."

She let out the breath she didn't realize she was holding "Alright," she said, trying to keep the hurt from her voice as she got off his lap. She crawled over to the edge of the bed and pulled on her panties and tank top. She slipped out of bed.

"Natasha, wait," he said, throwing the covers off. His hand on her arm made her stop and turn. "It's not that I don't love you," he said, licking his lips, "because I do. I do love you, I'm… madly in love with you."

"But?" Both of her brows shot up as she gave him an expecting look.

"But… I… I'll feel more comfortable if we… went out a few times before we… uh… make whoopee." He stared at his feet, and his entire head and neck was crimson. She wrinkled her nose.

"Pardon?"

"What did Sam say… uh…" he put his hands on his hips, rocking back and forth on his feet. "Before we Netflix and chill."

"Oh," she said, eyes going wide as she giggled a little bit. "I hate to break it to you Steve, but… I doubt there are any 40s theme dance halls in Wakanda, and we can't exactly go off to Rome or Paris."

"I know, I know," he said. "But—"

"But," she drawled, "We've know each other long enough that I'm sure we can skip the traditional courtship and get right to the fun part." She closed the gap between them. "I understand where you're coming from Steve, but like I just said: we've known each other since you've came out of the ice. Dating allows a couple to get to know each other prior to sex, but we've hung out and done all that get to know each other." She rested her hands against his chest. "We fought aliens and killer robots together. You know what they say."

"I do?"

"The couple that slays together, stays together." She grinned at him, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. He snorted in amusement, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Yes, but—"

"So, is there something else making you uncomfortable with the idea of us making whoopee?" She grinned when he blushed. "You said you wanted someone with shared life experiences."

"I remember," he said as she closed the gap further; their toes were touching. "It's just… I…"

She nodded, her smile fracturing when she realized what was wrong. She let out a sigh, going to the window, and wrapped her arms around herself. Of course, she should have realized that was what he'd be worried about: an unplanned pregnancy. A man like Steve would want children and his gentlemanly nature would worry about unplanned pregnancies. "You don't have to worry about that?"

"I don't?" he frowned, confused. "Because I do, Nat. I told you before I'm always honest, and I mean it when I say I l—"

"No," she cut him off, not comprehending his tirade, "the Red Room took care of _that_ ," she said, unable to hide the bitterness in her tone. It was a bitter pill to swallow. Going to visit Clint and his family, seeing his children and knowing she could never had her own children. She contented herself with being their Auntie Natasha, but it wasn't the same. The joy that Laura had on her face and the way Clint spoke of his children… she wanted that. The Red Room denied motherhood to her. It was the one thing she could relate to Bruce about: the inability to have children (even though he had the gall to imply that it made them both monstrous somehow).

"Nat, what are you talking about?" Steve asked.

She wrinkled her nose, confused. It was clear that had a disconnect about his hesitancy. "What are _you_ talking about?" she asked.

He licked his lips, unable to meet her eyes for some reason. He let out a quick breath. "Nothing, Nat. It's nothing." He forced a smile; she could tell it didn't reach his eyes. She gave a beady stare but didn't press him, turning to look at the window again. "I'm just… well, old fashioned" he went on, "I know we know each other, but I was always taught sex after marriage and that love and sex go hand in hand—"

She spun around, eyes widen. "Are you suggesting—"

"No," he said, pulling her into a hug. "No, I'm not suggesting that. I'm just… it feels like everything we do is—"

"Ass backwards?"

"I would say language, but I have a feeling you'll step on my foot, so I'll let it slide."

"Oh, you've sworn before, don't deny it," she teased, poking him in the stomach. He squirmed. She grinned, filing the information away for later use. "And we haven't skipped any steps, we just are doing them in our own order."

"I know," he said, a smile on his face as he kissed her brow. "But now I want to know what's wrong. What did the Red Room take care of?" She buried her face in his chest, sighing as he stroked her hair. "Nat."

"I can't have a baby."

"I'm not ready to be a father either, but—"

"No." She looked up at him, the pain and frustration clear on her face. She would give him anything, she wanted to give him everything. A family, a home, the American dream. She pulled free from his arms, her hands clenching and unclenching, trying to find something to either hold onto or punch. "You don't get it, Steve" — she blinked, keeping the tears at bay — "I _physically_ can't get pregnant."

"Oh Natasha." He pulled her into a bone-crushing hug and she didn't know what hurt worst; the sympathy in his tone or the fact he let her cry into his chest as he ran a hand through her hair. "I'm so sorry," he said, "if it makes you feel better I'm not sure if I'm capable of having children, either."

She pulled back, his hands lacing together at the small of her back. "Are you serious?" she asked, baffled. He nodded. "How can you be… incapable of having children?"

"Well… the soldier serum… improved a lot but nobody told me if it would affect my ability to… have children." He gave a small shrug. "At the time, I never thought I'd be a father so, I never asked but… now that you —" He bowed his head. "I'm sorry."

"No, don't be," she said, realizing he was trying to empathize with her. "Thank you." She leaned back, and he let her go. She took his hand and tugged him back towards the bed. "Are you nervous because you're a virgin?" She gave him a small smile. "We don't have to if you don't want to Steve. I'm not going to force you into something your uncomfortable with."

"No, it's fine. I want his," he said tugging her to a stop, only to the pulse point on her wrist, his nose nuzzling the spot. "Yes, I'm nervous. Nat… I'm not sure what to _do_. I… I never—"

"Have you ever watched porn?"

"Does looking at pine-ups count?"

"Depends." She looked at him. "Have you masturbated?"

"I had a nun tell me masturbation was a sin and it'll make my hand fall of," he admitted. She snorted, biting back a laugh. "I did have a dream about Peggy once, during the war… I woke up and well… I was—"

"Standing at attention?" Grinning when he nodded, his ears pink. "And?"

"Well my hand didn't fall off!" he waved his hand at her, a goofy grin on his face. She chuckled.

"Okay, so you aren't completely green. You at least know what feels _good_ for you," she said, and gave his hand another tugged as she guided him back to bed. It was disappointing the sun had set, she was hoping to make love to him in the golden light. The moonlight flittering through the trees will have to do; at least the moonlight brought out his eyes and washed out his blush.

He crawled into bed as she undressed again, before straddling his hips. She wiggled, until she was comfortable on his lap. She rubbed his biceps. "Relax. I'm not going to hurt you and my vagina doesn't have sharp teeth that'll bite your penis off."

"I wasn't—"

"It's apparently what a succubus has between her legs, a fanged vagina," she said, giving a little shrug. "Since this is your first time, we'll take things slow."

"How many men have you been wit?"

"Men." She chortled. "I've been with men _and_ women. If a job required me to seduce someone, I had to. Part of the reason they took… they did what they did to me."

"And I'm so—"

"Ah-ah," she cooed pressing a finger against his lips. "No more apologizing. For the moment we'll just focus on _us_." She smiled, tracing his lip. "We'll start with something easy, kissing and touching."

"I can… you'll let me touch you?"

"I want your hands to explore my body. Imagine you're a blind man — you can close your eyes if you want — and your hands need to map out my body. Listen to my voice, trust yourself. I'll let you know what I like and what I don't." She ran her fingers through his beard, smiling at the little shudder that passed through him. "If you want to stop, just say no and we can stop."

"And if I don't?" he murmured, as he leaned forward to kiss her neck. She gasped, arching up to meet him.

"Then don't say anything," she forced the words out. His hand began to roam, shyly at first, but as she gasped and sighed, his confidence grew, and he got bolder. They stopped beneath her breasts.

"Nat—"

"Go on," she whispered, "map my body, my _entire_ body." He nodded and kissed her as his hands cupped her breasts, thumbs gracing her nipples. She gasped into the kiss, moaning as he slipped his tongue into her mouth. He squeezed her breasts gently. "Steve," she said, voice husky.

"You're beautiful," he said, admiring her skin, milk white in the moonlight; he traced the scars he found and gave them little kisses. She never had anyone admire her scars before, she found it endearing. She smiled as his thumb trace small circles over the clover. He pressed kisses to her neck and collarbone, outlining her breasts with searing kisses and she gasped as his lips fell over her nipple. The roughness of his beard contrast with the hot wetness of his tongue.

"Oh." She held his head in place, eyes wanting to roll back into her skull. His hands ran down her hips and over her thighs, teasing the tangle of curls between her legs. He shifted to her other breast and a shuddering gasp escaped her throat. "G-Go on," she muttered as she swallowed a moan. His fingers delved between her legs, shyly. She mewed as he touched her, her vocalizations encouraging him. "Fuck." It slipped out when his thumb pressed against her nub.

He pulled away from her breast. "Language," he teased and kissed her and continued to touch her. She kissed his neck as she bucked her hips, hoping he got the message. He did, and she groaned, biting his neck when he slipped a finger into her. "Ow, Nat."

She lifted her hips up to give him more room to maneuver his hand. "S-Sorry," she breathed, kissing the spot she bit, sucking a little bit to sooth it. "I won't bite."

"Thank you," he said and resumed fingering. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, nuzzling and kissing his neck as he teased her folds, thrusting one finger and then two in and out of her, his thumb rubbing along her nub. She moaned, gasping, hips rocking against his hand, the pressure was building, she couldn't think clearly, all she wanted was to reach that rapturous high. "Steve… Steve, I—" she moaned, a jumble of English and Russian tumbling from her lips, her body shuddering. She sat back, a blissful expression on her face. She took his face in her hands and kissed him, long and slow and tender. "Not bad old man."

He grinned. "Well…" he pulled his hand away, making a slight face at the goo. She grabbed his hand before he could wipe it on the bed and licked his fingers. She smirked, a naughty look in her eyes and her lips slowly enveloped his fingers, coated in her essence. She could tell by the look that he was more turned on than disgusted. She settled herself on his lap and gave a wicked good smirk.

"Pants tight?" she asked, grinding against his erection and the way his mouth opened and he groaned, melting at the sensation was enough of an answer. "Take that as a yes," she said and slipped her hands beneath his shirt. He was all too willing to remove his chest. "Mmmm." She gave an appreciative hum as she kissed his chest, trailing her tongue around his pecs and shoulders, along his collarbone; her hips rotated steadily, and she gave a cute squeak when he bucked up. "Down boy."

"Natasha," he growled. It sent a shiver down her spine in a good way. He bucked again, and she giggled. "Please."

"Since you asked nicely," she teased, winking at him and helping him to shuck his boxers. He sprung to attention, his cock thick and firm in her hand. He moaned as she ran her hand up and down his length. "Lay back," she said. He did so, wiggling his shoulders to smooth out the pillows. "Relax, don't rush."

"I… I… okay," he nodded, she smiled and lifted herself up, grasping his cock in one hand and bracing herself on his stomach with the other. She teased his tip at her entrance, he bit his lip so hard she was afraid he'd start bleeding. She allowed the tip to ease into her as she brought herself lower.

"Oh damn," she gasped as her walls stretched to accommodate his girth. He was big — probably the biggest she ever had, well Bucky was _enhanced_ too — and it felt good. She sank all the way down.

"Dear God," Steve groaned, eyes rolling back into his head. "Natasha… oh, Natasha." He gasped, his chest rising and falling beneath her palm as he gulped great lungfuls of air. "Fuck."

"Language," she said, teasing and laughing when he glared at her. He threaded his hand at the back of her head, pulling her down for a kiss. She hummed and realized how much she enjoyed hearing her name tumble from his lips. She rolled her hips and he groaned, his hands grabbing her thighs. She couldn't help but laugh at his expression a little, of all the virginal men (the list was a grand total of two, Steve made three), he was the most expressive. "Feel good Rogers? Think you can make it?"

"Don't," he said, tweaking the short hairs at the base of her skull, chest rising and falling as he resisted the primal urge to buck. "Don't call me Rogers again. Not now, not ever." His hand fell to her shoulder and he gave it a squeeze, eyes closing as he savored being inside her. "Just call me, Steve." His voice was soft.

She swallowed, the understanding of his request settling over her like a blanket, she licked her lips. "Okay, Steve." She blinked. "You ready?" she asked, tracing a pattern with her nail along his chest. He swallowed, cheeks flushed and eyes wide, a bright watery blue in the moonlight. It was the love that made them shown… love coupled with lust. He nodded. She grinned and rolled her hips again, setting the pace. He grunted as he thrust up into her, following her lead, his hands comfortable on her hips. They moved in sync and she leaned over him to kiss him, his beard scratchy and ticklish against her skin.

"Natasha," he breathed against her ear and it was the only warning she had before he rolled them over, the bed was soft and formed to her body. He had that boyish grin on his face and he hiked up her legs; she could tell he was going off of instinct now, and the deeper angle as he thrust into her coaxed a deep throaty moan from her mouth. He kissed her after her, muffling the next one.

She clawed at his back, knowing that her marks would be gone in the morning. She never wanted this feeling to end. It was divine. "Steve," she panted into his ear and he kissed her cheek. The pressure was building up again in her stomach, she was close. He began to pick up his pace, starting to become frantic.

"Nat… I'm… I'm close," he said between panting breaths. She nodded, watching his face.

"Me too."

"I want—" she cut him off with a kiss, his lips muffled her whimpering cry of bliss as she came and a few moments later he came too, spilling his hot seed into her broken womb. She laid there, watching him hold himself until the shudders had passed before pulling out and spooning her. He kissed her shoulder. "Nat…"

"Good first time?"

"Did… was I terrible?" he mumbled against her nape. She laughed, a light airy sound. He was cute when he was self-conscious. She twisted a bit and kissed the corner of his mouth.

"No," she said, "no you weren't terrible. You were wonderful," she said and snuggled against him.

"Mm, don't move too much," he said, his lips brushing her neck. She arched a brow, it was an odd request.

"Why?" she asked.

"Well, I… I don't know how long… I don't want to get hard again."

"You—" she stopped. A normal man needed time to recover after sex, but Steve had super soldier serum and she doubted they tested his sexual prowess after the procedure was completed. "Right." She pillowed her head against his bicep. "While I'm awake, I won't move, but I can make no promises once I'm asleep."

"Fair," he said, nuzzling her shoulder. "We can do it tomorrow if you want. Show me what else you like."

"Mm." She gave a little hum, imaging his head between her thighs, his beard tickling her legs as his tongue dipped in and out of her. "Okay," she said, resting her hand in his, smiling as he laced their fingers together. "Steve?"

"Mm?" he opened his eyes again. "Nat?"

"N-Nothing," she said and then flipped over, he grumbled as her hands pressed against his chest. "Actually, there is something."

"Nat, I'm sleepy," he protested as she tweaked his beard gently until his eyes opened.

" _Lisichka_ ," she said.

"Huh?"

"I want you to call me _lisichka_ ," she said, "it means little fox in Russian. It's a pet name."

"You want me to call you lisp-chika?" he frowned. "Nat, I can't even say that."

She laughed at that and snuggled closer to him. The bed was soft, he was warm; she was content and felt her eyes droop. "No, _lisichka_ ," she said slower.

"Nat, I can't say that," he sighed, pulling her closer. "It doesn't feel _right._ If I'm going to call you something, I want it to be special to me. Not a name you tell me to call you."

"Yes, but—" Bucky calls me that and I like it. "You're right," she said. "What are you going to call me then?"

The silence was comfortable, ebbing and flowing like the tide as he thought about what he was going to call her. He smiled after a moment. "Darling," he said instead, nuzzling her cheek. "My darling Natalia."

A small thrill went up her spine when he said her birth name. "Steve." She liked the way darling rolled off his tongue, it made her feel… _special_ , treasured even.

He sighed. "Darling." He kissed her nape. She twisted her chest a bit, catching his lips with hers. They kissed again, savoring the feel of each other's lips. "My darling."

"Yes," she agreed. "I'm yours now and forever."

* * *

 **Changed the title and the song, fits better.**

 **Well… I tried doing something different earlier, but it just didn't** _ **feel right**_ **, so you guys better be grateful! I was going to make you wait** _ **another**_ **chapter for this stuff. I hate writing sex scenes. They are so bloody awkward.**

 **Also, for those that may not have picked up on it, the secret Nat told Steve before she left was her birth name.**

 **I have no idea what's going to happen next though. :/**

 **Save an author; leave a review (and suggestions!)**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	12. Tides of Time

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _Sometimes I feel I don't have the words. Sometimes I feel I'm not being heard and then I fear I'm feeling nothing more. Sometimes I feel I don't want this change. I think we all have to rearrange, and now I feel there's no one losing me — Epica_

* * *

 _Pepper, Maria and Wanda smiled at her. "You look great, Natasha," Pepper said, smoothing the white gown that hugged her lithe body. "Stunning, he's going be so amazed."_

 _"You really didn't have to do this," she said, tears in her eyes, trying to not ruin the make-up tha Maria had spent so much time on. Her three bridesmaids looked at her, their smiles reflected on her face. "I'm so nervous."_

 _"I was too," Pepper said, "when I married Tony. But—" she smiled, a hand on her stomach. Natasha frowned, knowing if she squinted she could see a slight swell beneath Pepper's hand. "It was worth in the end. You'll be so happy. I didn't know Tony had it in him to behave! But he did."_

 _"That's because he loves you," Wanda said._

 _"More like he was terrified you'll file for divorce after an hour of being married," Maria said, winking. The women laughed. There was a knock on the door before Clint stuck his head in._

 _"Wow, Nat," he said, "you… you look amazing. He's gonna freeze his face in a smile when he sees you." She flushed, looking at her feet as wisps of Wanda's magic gently lowered the gauzy vail over her face. "I'm so honored that you asked me to walk you down the aisle. Really I am." he said and offered a meaty arm to her._

 _"Thanks for accepting," she said, putting her small hand on a bulging muscle. "It feels… right that you do it. That you give me away. You brought me out of the darkness, it feels fitting that you should escort me to another new future." Clint grinned at her, his eyes shining with unshed tears. She took the bouquet of lilies from Pepper. "I'm ready."_

 _"Good, let's go," Clint said, and laid her down the hall to the doors of the church. Someone sent the cue ahead of them and the music began to play as the door swung open. She didn't realize she was shaking until Clint patted her trembling hand. "He loves you. Don't worry, everything will be fine Nat."_

 _"I… I know," she said, keeping the maelstrom of emotions down. She was getting married. Married to the man she loved. Everyone sitting in the pews turned to watch as she walked down the aisle; she felt Clint's hand tighten on hers and she glanced at him, noting how his throat constricted to keep his own emotions at bay. She could only see the man standing at the end of the aisle. It wasn't long, but it felt long at the slow pace she was walking. The priest in his white robes edged in gold and the bejeweled cross, the church's great organ oozed out the bridal march._

 _She saw Laura sat with their children, and empty spot for Clint to return to. Thor beamed at her. Bruce gave her a solemn nod, and Tony gave her a thumbs up and a smile, Rhodey gave her a nod along with Sam and Vision. The other set of pews held T'Challa and Shuri, along with their respective entourages. Nobody else came, it was a small private thing, just her and her groom's friends… and family. Outside was the media circus; it was the wedding of the century, considering who she was marrying. She didn't dwell on what came after this moment, she took a quick breath and fixed her gaze at the end of the aisle. It was him, the man she'll be married to, that caught her attention._

 _He was happy, grinning and she could see him with his best man. Sharp in the military uniform. He was her future, and will be her husband, and maybe… maybe if Shuri had managed to do it, the father of her child. She and Clint climbed to climbed to the alter. He put her hands on the hands of her groom. "You take good care of her, understand?" the archer said. "I'll be watching." Her groom nodded, and she studied his face from behind the veil. He turned to her._

 _"Darling," he said, a hand going to her shoulder. "Darling_ , _" he said again, shaking her harder. "Darling, wake up. Wake up, Nat."_

She blinked her eyes, rolling over, her hand going to push away whomever was waking her up. "Wha—" the word died on her lips, when she saw Steve's face, a half smile on his lips. She was confused for a moment, wondering how Steve grew a beard so quickly. "Steve?" she asked, fingers tangling into his beard (it was real), sliding through the curly hair on his cheeks. "When did you grow a beard?" Her words coming out as a jumble as she snuggled closer to him.

"What? Why? Do you want me to shave? I'll shave if you want." His arms slipped around her, one running up and down her back, counting her vertebra. She couldn't help but smile at the tone of his voice. Who would've thought Captain America would be self-conscious about his appearance.

"No, no" — she yawned and stretched, rolling onto her back, tangling his fingers with hers. She reached up and played with his beard, a lazy smile on her lips — "I just… had a dream. A good dream, and you didn't have a beard." She tilted her head up to look at him; she reached up and played with his hair, she liked it long. "It looks fine." She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. She closed her eyes again, snuggling.

"What was the dream about?" he asked. She hummed, running her hand through his hair, it was soft and thick. He leaned into her touch, a soft sound escaping his throat, almost like a cat's purr; his eyes closed. "Darling?"

She giggled. "Whenever you stay that I think of the old gangster movies Clint made me watch late at night, jazz and swing music, suave edgy men and femme fatals and the innocent damsels, the words _kiss me darling!_ followed by a dramatic gasp. It also reminded me of the creeps at the bars that tried to hit on me that were too drunk to realize that was a bad idea." She grinned, lazy and relaxed as his one of his hands ran down her stomach and pulled her closer. He realized she enjoyed being in his arms; it made her feel safe and secure. "But, it's also unmistakably you. I like it." She smiled at him as his hand settled on her hip, the other stroking her shoulder.

"Darling," he purred, eyes hooded. It sent shivers down her spine. She pressed against him. She never cared for morning sex, but with Steve she'd make an exception. She could feel his erection against her thigh. She moved her leg, watching him dissolve. "You're not going to tell me about your dream are you?"

She shook her head. "No," she whispered, smoothing her thumb over his eyebrow.

"Why not? You should tell me if it's a good dream," he said, moving his hand to run it through her hair. "I don't only want to hear about the nightmares. I want to make sure you're having good dreams too."

"I'll always have good dreams if you hold me at tight," she whispered. If this is what being in love feels like, please… never let me stop feeling _happiness_. With a sigh, she closed her eyes, savoring feel of his hands on her body, the coarseness of his beard against her palm and the beat of his heart against her other; his warmth and the soft golden light that poured in through the window. This was paradise, peace, and she found it after years of searching. Alexi, Bucky, all her previous lovers that held her… never before had she felt like this. Safe in Steve's arms, all the poetry in the world finally made sense to her.

"I'm glad," he said, his lips brushing against her temple, his nose nuzzling her hair. He placed a kiss on her forehead and cradle her body against his better. She could weep for the love and joy overflowing in her heart.

"I love you, Steve," she whispered, holding his face in her hands. She let her guard down, surrendered the walls around her heart and allowed them to crumble. "Make love to me?" she asked.

He nodded and moved over her, catching her lips with a kiss, his hands roaming over her body. Closer to sleep than awake, she got lost in the sensation of his touch and caresses, the soft murmurs of words made for silence not talk, the contrast of his beard against her skin and the feel of him settling himself between her legs.

She panted and mewed, hips meeting his with languid thrusts. It was tender, an extension of their feelings for each other and not just a physical act. All previous sexual encounters she had had been strictly speaking — business. Even when she was with Bucky it had been _just_ sex (for her, she never bothered to ask Bucky if he felt different). The closest she ever came to feeling this way was with Alexi before he disappeared. Last night with Steve, it had been sweet and cute, she loved him, but she felt like she was breaking in a new horse; while she enjoyed it and it was a little more than _just_ sex, there emotional connection was still short circuiting. Until this moment, with him on top of her, murmuring sweet nothings between panty breaths and kisses as he savored everything thrust, relishing the feel of being inside her. It sent dizzying waves of pleasure and something else through her body, she wanted to merge with Steve, become one with him, and she felt full to bursting with this emotion that she couldn't take it anymore. She gasped, an indescribable emotion catching in her throat as she reached her peak. She'd had orgasms before and faked others, but none had ever made her cry before; this one did, and she cried silently into his neck, feeling his body convulse as he came. He kissed her neck, letting the pleasure shudder through his body before pulling out. "Natasha, darling, you're crying?" He touched her damp cheek. "Did I hurt you? Dear God, I hurt you, didn't I? Sometimes I forget my own strength and—"

"No, Steve, no. I'm fine." She sniffed, wiping at her tears. His tender concern laced with fear made the tears spill anew. God, why am I crying? I'm better than this. "I'm…" she stopped, wondering when did her iron clad grip on her emotions vanished. When did Steve tear down all the walls she built up to protect herself from situations like this. How did he get through a life time of defenses? She frowned, taking the sheet and wiping away his seed from her leg. I let him in, he didn't get through them, I let him in because he sat there and waited until I allowed him to enter. She loved him, yes, but she shouldn't be crying because he brought her to an orgasm.

"Natasha?" he asked. "Natasha, talk to me? Are you sure I didn't hurt you?"

"I'm— no," she said, mustering a smile as she wrangled her emotions back into place. "I'm not hurt. You didn't hurt me. In fact, you were gentle." She kissed him, soft on the lips. "Come." She patted his bicep. "Let's spare." She threw the covers off her body, shivering at the change in temperature. She needed to let out some aggressive energy and she doubted newly minted no-longer-a-virgin Steve Rogers was down for some rough sex that was nothing more than pure animalistic rutting. She doubted he'll ever be. She looked over her shoulder, he was watching her, and she couldn't help but smirk and give him a sultry little wink before heading into the bathroom to change.

* * *

The room was quiet. Wanda look at the yellow gemstone in Vision's forehead. He was laying on his back, arms crossed over his chest. He didn't really _sleep_ , not the way a human did, but more like entered a state when most of his subordinate functions were offline. He tried to explain it to her once, but he lost her with the technical jargon. A small ball of magic curled in her palm, she reached out with it, wanting to understand the stone. Her magic touched it, he gasped, eyes widening. Shocked, Wanda drew her hand back, her power dissipating. "I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"But you did not," he said, reaching up and touching her cheek with his fingers. She leaned against the alien fingertips. His skin almost felt like silicon that leaned close to the human skin feel. "I only felt you," he said. She smiled and touched the stone with her magic again. She felt, rather than heard, the soft hum it gave off. She stopped after a few minutes. "Interesting," Vision said.

"What?" She tilted her head at the far off look he got on his face. "Viz?"

"Nothing," he said. He looked at her as he sat up. "You seemed… troubled. Do you no longer wish to pursue a physical relationship with me? I will understand. I am not human and—"

"No," she said. "No, I'm just… for the past year I've been on the run with Sam and Steve. We've been doing undercover hero work. Small stuff, mostly it was Sam and Steve since they were less obvious. I mostly made sure nobody took anyone too seriously about what they saw. Manipulating their minds… their memories…" she looked at her hands, her power sparking between her fingers. "Am I monster?"

"If you are referring to the definition of monster denoting a mythical creature like a dragon or werewolf or vampire; then no you are not."

"But?"

"But, if you are referring to the definition that states a monster is something or someone that produces fear or harm by its physical appearance or actions, with the connotation of something wrong or evil, morally objectionable, physically or psychologically hideous, or a freak of nature… then yes."

Wanda bowed her head. "Knew it." She hugged herself, refusing to cry. It was something she always knew in her heart.

"But so am I," Vision said. She looked up at him, disbelief on her face. "I am not a true human. I'm an artificial human. An android or a homunculus, there ae several folklore references to human-like beings being created via magic. But"— Vision looked at her — "despite knowing that most people would see me as a freak of nature, I don't see myself as a monster. I do not understand why I don't. It's curious."

"Have you ever wanted to be… normal?" she asked. He smiled, looking around the sparse room. She did too, admiring the hardwood floor and the white walls, the floor to ceiling windows that looked out at the Wakandan jungle. She sighed, being here, cooped up in the palace was starting to make her go stir crazy. She wanted to get out and see the world, pretend for a moment that she was a normal person that couldn't move things with her mind or induce a person's deepest and darkest fears.

"I'm not sure if I understand your question, Wanda?" he said. "To me, my current state of existence is normal. Any previous one… is unknown to me. Why?"

"I want to… I want to see the world, Vision. I want to leave Wakanda and just… just pretend to be normal," she said. "I don't want to think about saving the world or having powers… I just… I want to see Paris and Rome and Cairo. New York, London, Seattle."

"I'll advise against going to the United States, considering you are technically a criminal." He looked down. "In fact, I do not think that is a good idea. People will notice you. They will notice me."

"That's why… why we give you a disguise. Give you a fake name, I'll cut my hair, color it like Natasha." She smiled. "You can look human right?"

"I'm not sure." He looked up at the ceiling. Wanda had come to associate that pose with him thinking about something. "I believe with the power of the Mind Stone and some images, I can replicate a human appearance."

"You're okay with doing this, Viz? We don't have to. I'll understand if you want to stay here where it's safe." She took his hand, smoothing her thumb along the knuckles. She pressed herself a bit closer to him. He didn't generate heat like a human, but he still was a solid body, a comfort to her when she needed it.

"I would like to understand the world beyond what I already do know," he said. "I'll go with you." He smiled. "So, you'll feel less alone." He touched her face, causing her to smile and hold his hand there. "I do know what loneliness feels like, Wanda. I am the only one of my kind. It is… a melancholic understanding."

She pressed her lips against his. The kiss was sweet and chaste. "You're not alone. You have me."

Vision looked around. "That is… a most unusual manner for stimuli of the lips. I feel… conflicted. I do not know why. It is almost like the feeling of being in love." He held her with his gaze. "What was that called?"

"A kiss."

"I thought so," he said, "can you kiss me again? I need to analyze the process and how the stimulus receptors respond."

Wanda giggled. "Of course, I'll kiss you again, Viz," she said, scooting closer and kissing him again.

* * *

At this point, Natasha figured that Steve was fighting on the defensive as an excuse to touch her. Every strike she made he blocked, no matter how inconvenient it was for him. She aimed for his head, he crossed his arms in front of his face to catch her punch. She sent a kick to his midsection and he would grab her foot. He ran his hand up her calf, a devilish smirk on his face. She pursed her lips, jumped and kicked him in the head. He had to drop her other foot to block that.

Her quick jabs, jerky kicks to his lower legs. Blocked. He wasn't even winded yet as if he wasn't truly trying to create an opening. It was starting to piss her off, this was a spare. An actual fight were the participants agreed to _not_ kill each other. Steve was making it into a game. I should have never taken his virginity! She thought, ducking into his guard and giving him a quick forceful shove with both hands. He staggered back, and she followed up with more jabs, trying to feint to prevent him from blocking her, trying to get him to on the offensive. He wasn't and with a cry she pushed through his guard once again and rabbit kicked him in the gut. It knocked the wind from him and she recovered with a back flip, landing in a crouch. She swept his legs out from under him; viper-swift, straddled his chest and pinned his hands over his head. Breathing hard, she stared down at him. There was that smug twinkle in his eyes, as if he had her right where he wanted her.

He broke her hold on his wrists; hands going to her sides and with a fluid motion, he rolled them over. She grunted as her back collided with floor mats. "Cheap trick."

"Learned from the best," he said, that easy boyish smile on his face again. She snorted. "Don't think I'll let you pin me that easily next time."

"I hope next time you actually fight back," she said. He chuckled, head ducking down to kiss her. She returned it, opening her mouth when his tongue graced her lips. Truth be told, sparing was frustrating because she had a prime view of the way Steve's body moved, how his muscles rippled beneath his skin. It was intoxicating. She slipped her hands free from his hold, running her fingers up his sides, luxuriating the feel of his warm skin beneath her fingertips, how his muscles shuddered at her touch. He trailed kisses from her lips to her jaw to her throat. She gasped when he sucked on her neck, nipping lightly. She wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. "Steve—" His hand slipped beneath her light workout shirt, pressing against her breast. She moaned softly.

"Aw, hell no!" a newcomer said.

They sprung apart as if they had zapped each other. They stared at the intruder. "Sam?" Steve asked, scooting a bit towards her to block Sam's view of her as she adjusted her shirt and sports bra. "Wh-What are you doing here?"

"I did come for a work out, but now I'm starting to rethink that idea," Sam said. "I would say about time, but—" he gave a shrug, focusing on wrapping his hands. He finished but didn't start punching the bag. "So, what do we do now? Leave Wakanda? Ask T'Challa if he has missions for us?"

She blinked, surprised she had never thought about what to do next. She had been focused on reaching Steve and telling him how she felt. She stuck her nail in her mouth, tweaking it between her teeth. "Stop that," Steve whispered, taking her hand and holding it. She snorted a giggle. "We need to speak with Wanda too. Maybe after lunch we'll discuss what to do."

"And invite Bucky. They'll probably put him back on ice," Sam said.

"He's gotten better," Steve said, his voice tiny. She gave him a sympathetic smile and squeezed his hand. She knew how hard it was for him to force Bucky back into cryo but if that was the only way Bucky felt safe than so be it. "I'll… of course, we'll include him in our plans," Steve finally said.

"I know he's your friend, but you just don't shrug off baggage like he has," Sam said, turning his backs to them to face the punching back. She watched as he warmed up with a few quick jabs. "If he chooses to stay out of the ice, I can help. I know how to work with people with PTSD."

"Thanks Sam," he said, "I appreciate it. I'll let Bucky know." He let go of her hand with a sigh and grabbed a towel in the corner they left their water bottles in. She watched him as he walked off. His openness a moment before had disappeared. She knew that tucked in look, she worn it herself. He was guarded, not wanting to let his friends know he had his own demons to confront.

"You might want to cover your neck," Sam said, tapping the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

"Oh!" she hiked up her shirt. "Thanks, don't want everyone to see that Steve staked his claim." She winked, an amuse smile on her face when Sam rolled his eyes. She grabbed her water bottle and took the same path Steve did.

* * *

Bucky's fingers brushed his before his grip failed and he fell into the icy ravine. The endless nights of drinking and drinking and drinking but never getting drunk, not even a little, not even to dull the pain of losing his best friend. "Don't blame yourself," Peggy said, joining him at the rickety table. "You did everything you could." Her hand on his wasn't enough. "Allow Barnes the dignity of his death, he thought you were damn well worth dying for." He didn't do everything he could. He failed Bucky. His best friend since childhood, the one person that stuck with him through thick and thin.

"You'll have the band play something slow? I'd hate to step on your toes—" he didn't finish; the behemoth of an aircraft crashed into the Arctic. He jerked, covering his face with his arms, hitting his head on the seat. He groaned, opening his eyes when he heard a crack like thunder. It took a moment for him to realize that the ice was breaking. He stood up, shaking as he gathered his compass and shield. The plane began its slow slide towards the frigid water. The plane hit the water, a loud _whoosh_ sounded, water breaking the glass of the windshield. The water — icy, sharp, salty — splashed him in the face; the bombs rumbled as they went off but the flames didn't consume the plane due to the rushing water. He used his shield it to push against the onslaught of the ocean, trying to find an escape before the plane was fully submerged. Panic began to flood his mind, eyes darting about to find an exit; he couldn't think, he felt terrified for the first time since becoming Captain America. A name tumbled from his lips but the sound of the water as the plane sank drowned it out. The water froze him down to the bone. He shivered, lips going blue as his internal temperature began to rapidly drop. He tried to swim, water rushing up around his shoulders, washing over his head. He gulped a breath of air, limbs sluggish, spots dancing across his vision. "Help!" he cried to nobody. "Someone help!" He flailed in the water, trying to swim but his body was too cold. "Anyone… h-help…" He wondered if this was what it felt like to die. Something hit him in the head, stunning and he had the foresight to not swallow water. He sunk down, dimly aware of his back hitting the windshield. He watched as the world began to dim and grow murky. Peggy, I'm sorry, but I'm going to be late… forgive me? Cold enveloped him, followed by endless darkness.

Steve jerked out of his reprieve, the hot water cascading over his body but he shivered as if he had been in freezing water. "Steve? Steve are you still in there? Are you okay?" it was Natasha's voice. He pushed his wet hair back and got his bearings. He was in the shower, in the suit of rooms in the royal palace in Wakanda. He wasn't trapped in the ice. He rubbed at the goosebumps on his forearms despite the warm water. "Steve?"

"I'm fine, darling," he called, grabbing the bottle of body wash and squeezing a dollop onto his palm. "Be out in a few," he said. He scrubbed himself down, trying not to think about the ice, waking up from the ice with a game he been to, playing on a radio. Realizing Bucky was alive but… _different_. Finding Peggy only to realize that he had been too late — seventy years too late — losing her in the end. _"I didn't want you to be alone."_ He looked up, allowing the warm water to cascade around his face. He broke when Natasha had said that, crying softly into her neck as she held him, rubbing his back. She didn't judge him, didn't lecture him. She simply held him, held him and accepted that even super soldiers cried. Even super soldiers broke.

He turned the water off, drying himself off and wrapping the towel around his waist. He walked out of the bathroom. "Hey." Natasha was on his bed, offering him a small smile. She was wearing fluttery lounge pants, a spaghetti strap top with a compatible colored bra. Her hair was damp, dripping at the ends.

"Hey." He was on autopilot, mind lost in his darkest memories. Wiping the sweat from his dying mother's brow, wondering what will happen to him once she was gone. Will he live with Bucky? Work was difficult to find. He had to drop out of art school when she got sick. He could sell some sketches or set up a street corner shop and draw caricatures for twenty-five cents. Once, when he was a boy, he had dreamed of studying art in France, under one of the great masters. That time seemed far off and idyllic. The funeral was a solemn private affair, it was just him after all. He wasn't strong, but he would be damned if he didn't carry his mother's casket to her finally resting place. Bucky had met him outside the graveyard, had asked if he was okay, even invited him over, said his parents would understand. He didn't cry at the funeral, he didn't as he packed up his mother's things. He remembered standing in the middle of the apartment, her things boxed up and stored in a closet, and thinking how he never felt more alone. He cried then, burying his face in his hands, sobbing as he crumbled to the floor. He was alone, utterly alone.

"Steve? _Steve_."

"Uh?" he looked up, wondering when Natasha had gotten so close. "Nat." He told himself not to flinch when she put her hand on his cheek and wiped away a few tears. "I'm okay." His voice shook.

"Are you? You seem… distant. Ever since Sam mentioned Bucky and—"

"I'm fine," he said, taking her hand away and pressing a kiss to her palm. "I'm fine." He wasn't fine, but he had gotten good at hiding it over the years. The nightmares, they never went away, and he hated the cold. No, he just got good at hiding his troubles, putting on the face that people needed to see. They needed to see him, Steve Rogers — Captain America (can he even call himself that anymore) — strong and unshakeable. If the world got wind he had nightmares and issues. He swallowed. I may be broken into ten thousand pieces inside, but on the outside, I appear whole… I must be, for everyone's sake.

Natasha narrowed her eyes. "If you need to talk, I'll listen. I don't know what help I'll be but, I'll listen. Clint listened when I just started at Shield. Or talk to Sam. He's dealt with soldiers that have—"

"Don't." His voice was sharp, startling her enough for her to take a step back, he reflexively tightened his grip on her wrist. She had seen through his façade, of course she would, but still… he had a secret to keep and she wasn't allowed to just rip away his mask. "I'm fine, Natasha. Please. Don't worry about me." He pressed a kiss to her brow. She didn't need to bear this cross too; it was his, and his alone, he couldn't burden her with it or anyone else for that matter.

She let out a breath, nodded. "Alright. Remember we're having lunch with the others, so put your underwear on." He looked down, a pair of grey boxers in his hand. "Did you… is that your name on the waist band?"

"No," he said, putting on his underwear before she could swipe it from him to see. "It's not, and don't go looking through my clothes." The look she gave him, made him realize that he had better think about locking his drawers. Who was he fooling, this was Black Widow, a lock wasn't going to stop her. She sashayed closer to him, a flirty expression on her face.

"I won't tell anyone if you write your name on the waistband of your underwear," she purred, a cheeky smile struggling to remain in check. He pecked her lips.

"You won't have anything to tell if I never tell you," he said and stepped back, pulling the towel away and tossing it at her. She caught it with a baffled squeak. He glanced at her, amused as he pulled out a shirt and slipped it over his head, and then pulled on his pants and socks. She huffed and tossed the towel back at him and he caught her, putting it over the chair to dry. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. "No peeking." He grinned as he tapped her nose. "Now let's go. I'm famished." He took her hand and lead her out of their room.

* * *

They reached the dining room of the suite that T'Challa had given him. Bucky, Sam, Vision and Wanda were already there. Vision was the only one not eating, and he floated apart from the group, watching the colorful birds fly by the window. Bucky and Sam were discussing card games, munching away on chicken legs. "Good, everyone's here," Wanda said, setting down her knife and fork. "Vision," she said.

"Right," he said and floated, only to touch down and walked when Wanda cleared her throat. "Wanda and I have something to announce." The artificial man took Wanda's hand. They shared a look, one that he was starting to realize as love (one he and Natasha are starting to share too), before Vision fixed them with his almost alien gaze.

"Vision and I want to tour Europe."

* * *

 **This chapter took a while, cause I didn't really figure out what happened** _ **after**_ **I got Nat and Steve together. So, we got some angst, some laughs, and the team "separating".**

 **Sorry for the wait, but I rather give you a quality chapter than just churn these out willynilly.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	13. Last to Know

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _You were the first to say_ _,_ _that we were not okay_ _._ _You were the first to lie_ _,_ _when we were not alright._ _This was my first love, she was the first to go_ _and when she left me for you_ _…_ _I was the last to know. — Three Days Grace_

* * *

The table fell silent, everyone staring at Wanda and Vision. Bucky had put down his chicken, Sam had his mouth open in surprise, and Natasha was squeeze his hand beneath the table. He squeezed back stroking her knuckles in calm reassurance. During their travels together, she had become something of a mother to Wanda, taking the girl under her wing. Sam had remarked more than once that he and Natasha were a semblance of parents. He'd always brushed it off, telling Sam he was reading too much into it. But now, he knew that Sam wasn't. It felt like his daughter was asking to move across the country by herself. Steve shifted in his seat, hand bracing his jaw as he studied Vision and Wanda. Everyone looked to him, he was the leader and his voice had the most weight. "Why?" he finally asked.

Wanda flushed, looking down at her lap. She muttered something in Sokovian, then fixed him with a steady gaze. "I'm… I take pride in helping people, but we are supposed to be in hiding, and what better way to hide than to _not_ help people."

"Wanda—"

"Sam, let her speak," he said, fixing a calming gaze in Sam's direction. The man fidgeted and leaned back in his seat, a look of frustration on his face. "Wanda."

"I want to see the world, Steve. I have this chance now, and I want to take it. Please, let me." She gave him an earnest look, hope in her eyes. "I want a chance to be normal." She looked at Vision and squeezed his fingers. He didn't miss the tender exchange between her and the artificial man. The scrapping of a chair broke the tense pensive silence. Natasha gave a nervous flush.

"Darling?" he asked, catching the arched brow Bucky gave him when he said that. She ran her hand through his hair.

"Be back," she whispered and walked out of the room. He nodded, looking at his friends, and picked up a sandwich. He took a bite, making a face. He hated tuna fish. He could feel Bucky's eyes on him.

"What?" he said around a bite, returning his best friend's stare.

"Darling?" he asked, a look that asked who are you and what have you done with Steve? " _Darling?_ " Bucky snorted a laugh. "What are you, Clark Gable or something?"

"Bucky…" he huffed.

"You can't leave Wanda!" Sam said. "You can't. We're a team. We can't break up the team!" He took her hand. "You're like a sister to me, Wanda. I don't want you to go."

"Sam, I want to see the world. To be normal, or at least semblance of that. I don't want people to look at me and see the monstrous Scarlet Witch—"

"You're not a monster Wanda!" Sam and Vision said. The two shared a look with each other and nodded. "You're not," Sam said. "We don't see you as such."

"You called Natasha, _darling_!" Bucky said, he pointed his fork at Steve. "Darling? That's something my grandmother called me!"

"Buck," he said, rolling his eyes. "She doesn't mind. I can call her that if I want, she and I are well…" he took a huge bite of his sandwich, ignoring the quick downward turn of Bucky's lips. "And Wanda, if this is something you want to do, then go do it."

"Thank you—"

"You're just going to let he _leave_?" Sam pressed.

"You and Natasha are what?" Bucky asked. He looked between Sam and Bucky, trying to decide who to talk to first, he was unable to and took another bite. Natasha came back with a box and set it on the table, her face impassive. She took off the lid and handed two passports to Wanda.

"I had these made when I decided to try and find Steve. Had to call in a few favors at the Kremlin," she said and handed a passport to Sam.

" _Vy etogo ne sdelali? Pochemu ty by tak postupil?_ " Bucky asked, arching a brow at her. She gave him one of her signature fake smiles, as she handed a passport to Steve. "Oh, I don't get one."

"I don't think you'd be keen on leaving if we ever met up." She sat back down. " _Oni byli mne odolzheniyem, chto vam nuzhno?_ "

" _Nichego, prosto ... dumayu, eto nemnogo riskovanno._ " Bucky took another bite of his lunch.

" _Mne nravitsya igrat'._ " She looked at the others. Steve licked the mayonnaise from his fingers, watching her. He wasn't shocked that Natasha had passports already prepared for them. She was a mastered spy and used to becoming invisible at a moment's notice.

Bucky puffed his cheeks out. " _Yasno._ " Only to bow his head when Natasha shot him a glare. Steve made a mental note to ask her to teach him Russian. He felt his ears turn red when she looked at him; he was vaguely aware that his thumb was still in his mouth.

"As I was saying, I had a contact in the Kremlin that owed me a favor. For Wanda and Vision, you have Finnish passports. Sam, you have an Italian passport."

"Giovanni Bichhieri," Sam said, looking at the picture of the passport, before showing it to everyone. It was his picture, but the name and birthday were different, as well as the nationality. "I make a pretty fine Italian guy."

"Steve you're from France," she said.

"Renard Tremblay," he smirked, and showed off his picture. "He needs to grow a beard." They laughed as he closed it. It felt odd, having a false identity, a different name. He had to forge his birthday for his driver's license when the DMV lady refused to accept his actual birth year of 1918. Instead he chose 1988, when he returned to redo the paper work, she had glanced at it then at his face before stamping it. He thanked Natasha for reminding him to change his age to fit with the altered year. "And what about you?"

"Me?" she pulled out a passport. "Irish." She winked. "Siofra Heffernan," she said. "Figured red hair and green eyes are pretty common in Ireland, so why not."

"My parents came from Ireland," he said, his voice soft. "Mam said she and Da wanted to go back one day." He looked up, ignoring the fact that she was looking him with an odd expression, only realizing that she never heard the faint Irish lilt to his words. It had faded, replaced by his familiar Brooklyn accent, but sometimes it came out, especially when he talked about his parents. His first words were Irish, before a nurse told his mother that for his sake, she'd stop speaking her native tongue around him and embrace English and the American way. Still, she sang all the lullabies in Irish. "I think this is a good plan."

"I didn't know you had all this," Sam said. "Tuomas and Tarja?" he arched a brow at Wanda and Vision. "Whatever."

"I'm a master spy, Sam, you didn't _honestly_ think I didn't go underground without having a few fake IDs and passports on hand now did you?" She leaned forward. "These will get you through almost all civilian boarders. Europe won't be so much of a problem because you can travel freely between EU nation states. I wouldn't try to risk it with the US. Especially since we are still at large, and if they had two brain cells to rub together, they'll realized that I would probably have this set up and would be on the lookout for a black Italian with that speaks American English."

Everyone laughed at that. He realized it felt good to laugh, it eased the tension in the room. He had only thought about getting his friends to safety, getting Bucky to safety, to a place he could recover. T'Challa had offered that but when he, Sam and Wanda left, he didn't really have a plan beyond staying low and out of sight. He was a soldier, not a spy. Sneaking around in the shadows wasn't his style.

Natasha on the other hand had all of this up her sleeve, knowing how to travel without being seen. A shadow among ghosts. For all the skills he lacked, she covered, and vice versa. They made a great team and he found himself falling a little bit more in love with her than he already was. It sent a pang of guilt through him: he and Peggy made a great team too. She handed out three bank cards. "These are connected to a Swiss bank account. Emergency cash, you can live comfortably for a year off these funds" — she grimaced — "six months if you want to live like Tony."

"Natasha, that's… so generous," Wanda said. Vision nodded, examining the plastic rectangle. "How did you manage to get so much money?"

"The less you know the better. Just trust me, this money won't raise any alarms. They are connected to your false identities," she said.

"I can't believe you had this all set up," Sam said. "How did you—"

"The Red Room trained me to always be at least three steps ahead on the ground and two hundred moves ahead mentally," she said. "So, Sam? What are your plans now?"

"I —"

"I want you to keep an eye on Vision and Wanda," he said, causing Sam to stare at him. Wanda was young, and Vision was… well, he stuck out like a sore thumb. He needed someone he could trust to keep an eye on them.

"Steve!" Wanda protested. "I can take care of myself, and Vision is with me."

"I understand," he said, "but the Mind Stone in Vision's forehead is… a liability that we don't know how to factor in. Plus, Sam can engage without using extraordinary abilities."

"He makes a point, Wanda," Vision said. "He is here for backup, nothing more."

"You won't even know I'm there," Sam said, a smirk on his face. "I'd like to see Europe now that I have a nearly unlimited flow of cash and a new name." He looked at them. "And you two lovebirds?"

He spat out his water as Natasha stammered in shock, a string of explicative coming out of her mouth in Russian. A few of them made Bucky blush. "Well, you did call her darling," he quipped. Natasha glared at Bucky.

"I'm not sure," he said, once he recovered from the initial shock. "Maybe we can go to Ireland."

"I was thinking we lay low at Clint's place," she said. He and Sam arched a brow. "What?"

"Clint even on speaking terms with you?" Sam asked. She huffed, folding her arms beneath her breasts. Steve didn't miss how her arms lifted them just slightly; he shifted in his seat.

"I asked him if we'd still be friends, and he said as long as I don't hit him too hard," she said.

" _Knew_ he was throwing his punches," Wanda grumbled, leaning against Vision.

Natasha smirked. "And yes, he helped me find you originally Sam," she finished answering Sam's question.

"I doubt his farm is in the same place," he said, tugging at his beard. "They'd know…"

"C'mon, Steve" — she bummed her hip against his — "Clint's a master spy and assassin. He knows how to keep his family safe from those he doesn't wish to know. Even if that someone is the US government."

"Still."

"It'll be fine," she said, "we can relax." She ran her hand through his beard and he leaned into her touch, uncaring of the eyes on them. Sam would've told them that he walked in on them making out sooner or later. The only thing that bothered him was the odd mixture of hurt and jealousy in Bucky's gaze and his own lingering guilt about Peggy. "And what about you Bucky?"

"I'll go back into cryo, Princess Shuri is still working on how to get the programming out of my head," Bucky said, his eyes downcast. "She sounded hopeful though, so maybe it won't be for _too much_ longer." He felt his heart break for his friend and wished there was some way to help him even though he knew there wasn't. He looked at Natasha, a small smile on his face. "I'll be fine," Bucky added.

"We know," she said. "So Wanda, Vision and Sam will go to Europe, while Steve and I will lay low for a little bit with Clint."

"That's the plan, correct," Vision confirmed. Wanda gave a little sigh. "Sam will keep his distance. He will be sightseeing as well."

"Damn right. Don't worry Wanda, you won't even know I'm there."

"If I see Redwing—"

"You won't, I promise," Sam said. Everyone laughed, and he couldn't help but smile, his arm slipping around Natasha's waist. He should cherish these carefree moments while they still lasted. He wasn't naïve enough to believe that their troubles were behind them, that there were no more threats that needed to be face. Some servants came in and whisked away the dishes. Sam invited Bucky to another card game, which the Bucky accepted. Wanda said she was going to see about taking pictures of the animals native to the African continent that dwelled in Wakanda; Vision saying he'll be along in a while.

"We can slip away," he whispered to Natasha.

"Finished what we started?" A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, her fingers giving his thigh a squeeze.

"Before you two disappear to have coitus," Vision said, "I will like to inform you Captain that… that the Mind Stone has spoken to me. On several occasions."

"Oh?" He straightened, tangling his fingers with Natasha's. "About what?"

"An approaching threat."

The calm before the storm. He took a deep breath, held it, and let it go. "Does it tell you what this threat is?"

"No," Vision said, bowing his head, "nor when it'll arrive. Merely that it approaches, and we should be on guard. It is why I left the facility, with Mr. Stark's permission."

"Does Tony know where you were headed?"

"No. Just that I had to get myself away from the facility, under the condition I check in with him on my status."

"And what would that be?" Natasha asked, her voice guarded. He understood, if Vision was ratting them out to Tony. He shook his head, not wanting to think about that.

"That I'm operating normally and have done nothing to cause public distress," the robotic man said. "I also said I was going to find shelter." Vision eyed the servants, but if they heard anything they didn't show it. Steve gave them a curt nod and a tepid smile. "It's why I sought out Miss Romanoff. I figured she could help."

"Well, whatever this threat is, it'll be hard to track a moving target. Plus, with Sam keeping an eye on you and Wanda, it shouldn't be too much of a problem," he said as he stood up, giving his shirt a tug. Vision nodded. "Is there anything else?"

"No, that'll… yes there is one question I would like to ask." Vision looked at Natasha, an uncomfortable — if a machine could feel discomfort — expression on his face. "Miss Romanoff are you… sure you want to be in my presence when I deliver my query?"

"Listen, Vision, I've heard things worse than whatever you could say," she said, her hands going up in surrender.

"Very well." Vision fixed his gaze on him. "Captain, I wish to know how I can have coitus with a woman without a penis."

* * *

The water was pleasantly cool, the small waterfall making a melodious splash. She swam through it, a soft giggle escaping her throat. Who would have thought that the King of Wakanda would have a hidden grotto in his palace or that he would've given Captain America access to it? She splashed water on her arms, glad for the privacy and luxuriating in the feel of the water against her skin. She never gone skinny-dipping before, but she reasoned there was a first for everything. Steve popped in front of her; she splashed him. "Your ears are still red."

"It didn't help that you _laughed_ ," he snipped, though there was a smile on his face and he splashed her back. "I… I'm glad you were there because I… I have no idea how to—"

"Cunnilingus?" she smiled at him as his face went red. "It's really simple, Steve, you put your mouth on her—"

"Okay, that's… that's enough," he said, swimming away from her. She glanced down, trying to see if he was aroused beneath the water, but though the pool was clear, the ripples distorted the reflection of the surface below that she couldn't see anything clearly. "I'll take your word for it."

She swam closer to him, an easy smile on her face. It was so easy to make him uncomfortable. He may no longer be a virgin, but he still blushed like one. She found it sweet; an expression of his nobility when it came to such topics. "We could" — she traced nonsense patterns on the water's surface as she treaded it — "go back to your room and I can give you a crash course in oral sex." She watched and heard him swallow; her smirk widening.

"That's… that's…"

"Tempting? I know," she said, swimming closer. "I can easily imagine you: mouth agape, moaning as you tug my hair — gently of course, you're not a brute — as I bob my head, sucking on your hard and throbbing cock." She pressed herself against him, planting a soft kiss on his cheek.

"Natasha…"

She shuttered as he sighed her name. "Imagine me on the bed, my legs spread wide with your head between my thighs, tongue licking my wet folds as you suck my nub as I tug at your hair, moaning your name." She looped her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss, smirking when she saw his eyes smolder with desire.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Romanoff."

"I thought you didn't want us to use our last names," she said, giving him a kiss, "said it put distance between us."

"It felt right," he said and planted a kiss on the junction between her neck and shoulder, "darling." She shuddered as he sucked on that spot.

"Steve," she whispered as she felt his hand on her back. He swam back towards the shore. "Here?"

"Why not?" he said. "We're already naked." He kissed her again as she could feel his length against her thigh, hard and wanting. She shuddered at the feeling. He found the spot he wanted, a little rocky shelf near the shore; the water came up to his chest. "If… If you want to that is," he said, blushing again and taking a step back.

She hooked her leg around his narrow waist and pulled him closer. "Of course, I want you," she said, hooking her other leg around him as well; she crossed her ankles at the base of his back. "I love you and I want to make love with you."

"Darling," he whispered, his voice soft and husky, though there was a haunted guilty look in his eyes. "I'd spend the rest of my life with you."

"And I you," she said. The weight of her words hung in the air between them, solemn as a sworn oath. She had sworn many oaths to various people and organizations; some she broken, some she abandoned, some she kept. Yet, this one… this one she seared onto her soul and vowed she'll keep it until death came to reap her soul. "Now and forever."

She kissed him, taking him down deep into their shared passion for each other. Both blissfully unaware of the hurt surprised of one man.

* * *

Bucky looked up when Steve entered his room. "You wanted to talk to me, Bucky?" Steve asked, his hair a bit damp.

"Enjoy your swim?" he asked, trying to keep the anger and the hurt from his voice. For as long as he could remember or rather what he could remember, nothing ever came between him and Steve. Sure, they had their spats, what pair of friends didn't? But they always made up in the end. They always had each other. Even during his brief moments of lucidity, he had Steve. He remembered Steve. Now, now it seemed like he was losing his best friend. He frowned, realizing that wasn't quite right either. God… am I _jealous_? I should be happy for Steve! He deserves this, more than anyone.

"Yeah, it was… good," Steve said, a wistful smile on his face. He felt his throat tighten and thought better of what he was about to do; that maybe he should just ask Shuri to put him back in cryo. Steve was happy with Natasha, who was he to come between that? Didn't Steve deserve some happiness? A moment's sense of peace? Someone to love.

Jealous was like a poison though. Once felt it colored everything and he had loved Natasha. Loved her like he never loved any of his previous girlfriends back during his old life. Natasha was different. She was sensual, deadly and ruthless. Yet, despite that, he knew there was a soft underbelly, filled with tenderness and compassion she only let a highly select few see. She never flinched at his metal arm, she had always kissed the ragged scar that connected it to his body. She had always treated him as if he was worth a damn. For all her talks of being a monster, Natasha could be surprisingly human. He loathed to give up to Steve.

Steve, had been a skinny little shit for most of his life. He was sick up to the gills and then he somehow manages to join the Army and they make him into a super soldier and the undesirableness just melted away, women falling over themselves to fawn at Steve's feet. He's suddenly not needed, invisible, their places swapped. It was a bitter pill for him to swallow. He didn't mind it, Steve was still Steve (still painfully awkward around women, despite his apollonian good looks and herculean strength), but he never thought that Steve would stoop so low as to _steal his girl_ and behind his back no less. "I'm glad," he said. "Sit."

"Thanks," he said and sat, sinking into the plush chair. "Bucky… I, I just want to tell you that— that if you want to come with us, Natasha and I… you can. You don't have to stay here and be frozen."

"It's something I want, Steve," he said, besides I don't think I can stomach you fucking my girl. "I don't want to be a burden." He forced a smile for his friend's sake. "Shuri thinks she close to cracking my problem."

"That's good," Steve said, a smile spreading across his face, "and you're not a burden, Bucky," he added, the earnestness in his voice, almost broke Bucky's resolve. Almost. "You aren't a burden. I'm the burden. Always have been."

He snorted, looking Steve up and down. The form fitting shirt outlined his muscles, and the jeans hung upon his narrow hips. Yeah, Steve was _such_ a burden, alright. "You're not a burden."

"Bucky—"

"Look, there's… there's something I have to tell you," he said. Might as well throw my fat in the fryer at this point. "It's about Natasha."

"Oh?"

"Natasha… _and_ me," he said and stared at his feet. He leaned back against the couch. Everything was white and immaculate. It sometimes hurt his eyes and he wished he could throw mud all over the place just for a sense of color, of contrast against all the brilliant blinding _white_. "Natasha and I know each other."

"Makes sense, you both were working for the Russians at one point or another," Steve said. He chewed his lip, scratching at the stubble along his jaw. He was mucking this up a bit.

"You gotta understand… you were still in the ice and Natasha had no idea you and her would end up as friends—"

"I love her, Bucky," he said, his tone serious. "I love her. I think the only other person I've love is Peggy."

Oh, Steve. Peggy wouldn't want you in this situation. Let her go, you big idiot, she's dead. She would've wanted you to move on. Bucky rubbed his face with his hand, it hurt to know… to understand, that Steve was still in love with Peggy. Hell, he was still in love with Natasha. "So, what?" He pulled his hand from his face. "You have Natasha's picture in your compass?" he snapped, internally smirking when Steve flinched. "Don't act like I didn't know you put Peggy's picture in that little thing."

"I haven't done that," Steve whispered, large shoulders tensing as he looked away, "I don't think… if I do… never mind."

His heart ached for the broken tone of Steve's voice. It wasn't right what happened to him, but it wasn't anymore right what happened to Steve. In terms of who lost more, Bucky would say it as Steve hands down, and this just proved it. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Steve nodded.  
"I know, no, I don't really have a token for Natasha," he said. They lapsed into a tense pregnant silence. He wasn't sure if he could tell Steve what he needed to hear. What Natasha should be telling him. He frowned, wondering why he wanted to bring this up at all. Maybe Natasha was right, maybe Steve didn't need to know about this and that he was just being jealous (and a bit petty) for bringing it up. She had told him it was over between them. "Bucky, is something wrong?" he finally asked.

"Steve… Natasha and I were lovers." Bucky licked his lips. "I still love her."

* * *

 **Dun. Dun. Duuuuuh.**

 **I'm on a Epica kick right now. :3 I haven't written like this in a long time, so I'm kinda rediscovering all my favorite bands and I'm like DUDE there is inspiration!**

 **Bucky confesses the truth.**

 **I feel bad for Bucky actually. I think there's a lot of unexplored jealousy between him and Steve post-serum. It's very lightly touched upon in The First Avenger, when Bucky tells Steve their places have been swapped after Bucky's failed attempt at flirting with Peggy. So… here ya go.**

 **Now, for my readers that read each and every chapter but don't review. I get it. Reviewing is hard, and AO3 doesn't have a kudos just for chapter. So. To resolve this, all I ask is that you leave a kudos in the comments.**

 **Just that. Just type kudos. It lets me know you read the chapter and enjoyed it. Until AO3 realizes that people read but are unsure about to comment or what to say, a kudos will do.**

 **I hope that helps some those silent but faithful readers.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo et Nihil**

 **PS: Forgot to add this into the AN originally.**

 **B: You didn't? Why would you do that? -** **Vy etogo ne sdelali? Pochemu ty by tak postupil?**

 **N: They owed me a favor, what's it to you? -** **Oni byli mne odolzheniyem, chto vam nuzhno?**

 **B: Nothing, just… think it's a bit risky. -** **Nichego, prosto ... dumayu, eto nemnogo riskovanno.**

 **N: I like to gamble. -** **Mne nravitsya igrat'.**

 **B. Clearly. -** **Yasno.**


	14. Broken

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _'Cause I'm broken when I'm open and I don't feel like I am strong enough. 'Cause I'm broken when I'm lonesome and I don't feel right when you're gone away. You don't feel me here anymore… — Seether featuring Amy Lee_

* * *

A heavy silence hung between them; no sounds broke it, nobody came to alleviate the awkwardness. Bucky could hear himself breathing, eyes fixed on Steve. "Oh." It was all his friend said. Whatever else Steve was thinking about slipped away behind that downtrodden pensive mask, he had seen him wear so many times before: when girls gave him that disgusted look of annoyance, when people ignored him, when bullies laughed as he struggled to get up because 'I give up' wasn't in Steve Rogers' lexicon. The look that said: I'm forever invisible even when I appear not to be.

He had threatened Natasha if she broke Steve's heart, instead he broke it. Natasha had told him she no longer loved him, yet he held onto something that was no longer there, onto a woman that was no longer his. He could still remember the few nights they shared together in Russia. The smell of her skin and hair, the way her body molded against his, the huskiness of her voice as they made love. All of it. He wasn't lying when he told her those were some of his happiest memories. Now he was ruining any chance his _best_ friend had with the woman they both had feelings for. "I'm sorry," he admitted. The jealousy in his heart withered and died in that moment; he felt free, as if he could finally breathe.

"So, you and Natasha, huh?" Steve said, looking at him. He nodded, licking his lips. "Bucky, I—"

"Look," he said and decided to go just throw caution to the wind. Steve deserved this chance at happiness, especially after losing Peggy. "I'm a jerk" — he couldn't help but smile when Steve gave a little laugh — "and I'll admit that… I'm jealous. I'm been jealous of you… of what you've become for a while. I know my relationship with Natasha is in the past but… being with her were some of the happiest moments I had during my periods of lucidity while you were in the ice. I treasured them, and I was hoping maybe, I could reclaim them." He rubbed his face with his hand. "Please, don't hate me Steve. I'd hate to have a woman come between us; you're like a brother to me."

"I don't hate you, Bucky," he said, his voice soft, full of concern and brotherly affection. "In a way, I understand where you're coming from."

"You do?" he looked at his friend, blinking to keep the tears at bay. He refused to cry, even though he knew Steve wouldn't begrudge him for it.

"Yeah." He swallowed thickly, finding a spot on the pristine floor to stare at. "I still love Peggy. And… even though she's dead, sometimes I feel like… I can't love Natasha as fully as I should be able to because a part of me will always belong to Peggy and if I let that go, then it wouldn't be real. That I can't go back and tell her how I feel. So, I hold onto it, hoping against hope that this is all a bad dream and I'll wake up in camp, Peggy leaning over me and thanking God I'm alive." He sniffed, rubbing his nose and bowed his head. "I feel like I'm in a dark world, and my love for Peggy was my guiding star and its fading and I'm scared." He swallowed.

"Steve, I—"

"I'm scared that if I let it go, I'll be all alone in the darkness," he whispered, and stood up. He patted Bucky on the shoulder as he headed towards the door.

"Steve, where you going?" he asked, worried Steve may do something to hurt himself. While his own mental instability was obvious, he knew that Steve suffered — often quietly — as well. He was a man adrift, lost among time. At least he had been aware of the passage of time each time he was thawed, he got a crash course on the new tactics, on what had happened between one thaw and the next. The changing decades had been like leaves, something you notice at the edge of your reality only for it end up being blurred into the background. For Steve, Bucky understood, it had been different. One minute it was 1945 and the next it had been in the mid-2010s. There was no gradual easing into it, Steve had been tossed into the next century — next millennia even.

"Somewhere…" he stopped, staring at nothing; the footsteps of the guards and servants moving down the hall were heard, the soft hum of machinery within the walls, their even breaths. Steve scuffed the ground with his foot. "Where I can be alone," he finally said and left the room. He watched the door hiss shut and Bucky had a terrible sinking feeling in his stomach.

* * *

"Natasha!"

Natasha looked up from putting the final touches she needed to make sure everyone got out of Wakanda and into their altered identities as seamlessly as possible. "Bucky?" she asked, arching a brow, wondering why he was here. "Is there something wrong?"

"Do you have a moment?" he asked, as he pulled up a chair and straddled it. She made an amused sound in her throat.

"For you, I have two," she said with a wink. Bucky flashed her an awkward smile, running his hand through his hair. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"I…" he stopped. She was surprised how easy it was to read him. As the Winter Soldier he was a towering figure of ice cold discipline and frigid execution. A block of ice made metal and flesh. Never betraying any emotions, robotic even and executed his orders down to the very last period. Contrary to Bucky, who at the moment was as easy to read as a book.

"Yes?" she hated pulling things out of people. It wasn't that she couldn't do it, it just was that when she interrogated people she preferred for them to craft the noose they'll hang themselves with instead of her doing it for them. It was easier and more fun that way. Bucky was going to make this difficult she realized with a twinge of annoyance.

"I told Steve about us, _lisichka_ ," he mumbled, bowing his head to avoid her gaze.

"What?" she stood up and lifted his chin with two fingers, digging her nails into the soft flesh just behind the bone. She kept her face impassive, though she did feel a bit pleased to note he winced at the pain.

"I told him about us!" Bucky bit out, but he didn't struggle. He could probably best her, even with one arm, but they both knew she was in control. That was the thing with creatures that possessed venom, they are usually smaller, and their venom gives them a much needed advantage in the scheme of life. They both knew: a widow's bite could take down a grown man.

"Why?" she asked, her tone curious but laced with anger. "He didn't need to know. There was no reason to tell him unless—" she stopped, a shocked expression passing over her face only to be replaced with a devilish one that spoke to a secret knowledge she only possessed. "I never thought _you_ would be afflicted by such things."

"Can it, Romanoff," Bucky growled, jerking his face away. She let him with an amused chuckle. "I'm not proud of it, and I regret ever telling him. You were right. Steve didn't need to know. I was being an idiot."

"We all make mistakes," she said with a little shrug. He snorted. "Why did you do it?"

"Do you want to truth?"

"Lies are too sweet for my liking and half-truths make me gag," she said, that manipulative smile plastered all over her lips. "Never cared for honest falsehoods either."

"You're a piece of work, _lisichka_ ," he growled.

"It makes me good at what I do."

"Clearly."

"I like that you still call me that," she said, "Steve calls me 'darling' and it's a bit old fashion, but feels very American." She pulled a strain of his hair through her fingers. "I'm your _lisichka_."

"Natasha," he said, his voice hoarse, "make up your mind. Either stop flirting with me or give up on Steve." He grabbed her bicep. "Because the reason I told my best friend about us is because I was jealous of what you two have, jealous because I was still pining for a you — a woman I can't have — and I was hoping Steve's damnable morals would kick in and he'd step aside to give me a chance to be with you again."

She blinked, glancing at his hand around her bicep to the tight line of his lips and his clenched jaw. At one time she would have found that expression arousing, now she just found it annoying. It was instinct for her, to wrap people around her finger, using their vulnerabilities against them. Bucky was no exception. In fact, the only exception was Steve, she just couldn't be anything than a hundred percent honest with him. Something about him drew it out of her, compelled her to be authentic around him. "He didn't, did he?"

Bucky swallowed. "I wouldn't let him."

"Hm." She leaned in close, their noses almost touching. "And you should know me better." She pulled her arm free from his grasp and crossed her arms over her chest. "Where's Steve?"

"I don't know," he said, "he said he's going somewhere to be alone."

She looked out the window, studying the expanse of jungle that she could see. Steve was out there somewhere, alone. He shouldn't be alone, being alone wasn't good for him. She licked her lips. She had to find him, she will find him, because she imagined home she saw him. "Okay."

* * *

She did find him, sitting atop a rise that over looked the plains. It was a good trek from the palace, the scintillating city with its juxtaposing of old and new behind her like a glowing jewel in the gathering dark. The dried grasses crunched beneath her feet and she waved her hand about her face to scatter the evening gnats and mosquitos. The night wind was sweet upon her tongue, the musky scent of the savannah coating the back of her throat with the pleasant sense of freedom. It was warm in the gloaming with a promise of a cool night, the first stars appearing in the inky doom of the sky. She had to shield her eyes from the setting sun's final glare, and he was there before her; hunched up, trying to appear as small as his great bulk would allow him to appear, his from silhouetted in the dying aureate glow of the sun. "Steve?" she said, her voice so soft that the wind swept it away. She walked towards him, standing by his side. "It's beautiful," she said, watching the landscape before her.

A hyena laughed in reply to a distant bird call; the air warm upon her face. She watched the small herd of gazelle walk across the savannah. It was peaceful here, as if all the cares and horrors of the world simply melted away. She put her hand on his shoulder. A goat bleated behind her, and somewhere beyond the horizon and lion roared. Though night was ascending, the savannah came alive as if the animals were thankful that the harsh heat of the day had finally been vanquished by the gathering forces of the night. In the east the moon had already climbed over the city, bathing the world in its cool silver light. He grabbed her hand, squeezing her fingers.

A soft sight escaped her lips as she sat down and pulled him close. He wrapped his arms around her and hid his face in her chest. She watched the nighttime landscape, running her fingers through his hair as his shoulders shook with his silent tears. She didn't say anything, didn't have to say anything. She angled her head towards the heavens, watching the stars gather in the darkening sky. The warm wind dried her silent tears. Sometimes the lives they lived hurt so much and it felt as if all the agony and pain and the weight of the caked-on blood would eventually crush them. Yet, they still managed to trudge on, despite it all (or in spite of it).

His hair was soft, a bit dusty from sitting out here for so long and for the first time she felt a profound sense of peace. The world could end tomorrow, an asteroid blowing half the planet into space and she would be content with the life she led because of the man in her arms. A star fell, and she watched it arch through the sky into the horizon beyond. The memory of the girl she once was, caused her to make a wish upon the shooting star. "I promise Steve," she whispered, "that as long as I live you'll never be alone." Because I'm home with you, I am home.

* * *

 **Whooo**

 **I liked this chapter. I love the writing in the chapter. It's a bit on the short side but it's still very deep. Next chapter should be longer.**

 **Also, I graduate college next week and I need to start looking for a job and I'm lowkey anxious as fuck about taking this next step (and when I'm anxious a procrastinate** _ **hard**_ **which isn't good but I'm so anxious about The Next Step).**

 **Thank you for all the kind words and encouragement, and for reading (especially to my silent readers, you guys are the bestest! Always reading the new chapters. I'm glad you read it.)**

 **Remember: if you wanna comment but not sure what to say just leave a kudos in the comments (because AO3 didn't get the memo that we want kudos on chapters and not just the complete work)**

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 **Nemo et Nihil**


	15. Slow Love Slow

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _I wonder do I love you? Or the thought of you? Slow, love, slow only the weak are not lonely. Lips to ear rhymes, a slumber deeper than time. Slow, love, slow only the weak are not lonely. — Nightwish_

* * *

They made it back to Steve's room and laid in bed, naked. It was comforting, laying there and only feeling his skin against hers. The humid night was sticky and warm yet despite it all she felt cold, goosebumps pimpled her skin and she rested her head on Steve's chest, listening to his heartbeat. He played with her hair, both two caught up in their own thoughts to speak. Outside she heard the fluttering of bats, a few frogs clung to the glass and the moonlight cast eerie shadows upon the walls. It reminded her of the moonlight on snow in the middle of a Russian winter. It did something with the mind, mess with it, made you wonder if you were seeing things. "Do you love him?" Steve broke the silence and she let out the breath she was holding.

"Who?"

"Be honest with me."

"I'm not an honest person." She watched a frog crawl across the window, ignoring his glare. She didn't have to look, she knew what it looked like: his lips pressed into a firm line, the blue of his eyes washed out, and his skin bone pale from the moonlight causing his beard to be darker than normal.

"Natasha." There was a slight growl to his voice and she didn't bother to suppress the shudder. She closed her eyes; she knew who he was referring to and she knew that she had to choose her words with care. This could snuff out the burning ember of their romance or it could be the storm they weathered together and coax that ember into a roaring inferno.

Steve was always honest. He disliked liars and secret-keepers. Yet, he fell in love with me, the mistress of lies and secrets. She looked away from to frog to meet the gaze of the man that managed to win her heart. Others had tried to break in, to force it open; all had failed. Steve had simply knocked and talked through the door until — inch by inch — she had allowed him in. The door to her heart was still open though, and he could leave at any time. "Do you still love Peggy?"

"I—" he swallowed; she watched the muscles in his throat contract, wondering if he was struggling to phrase the question without hurting her.

"Be honest," she said, a hint of steel in her voice. The night was making her reckless or maybe it was her emotions, the fact their team — their little family of misfits — was breaking up. Maybe it was Steve and his damnable but so welcomed, ability to get her to be honest with herself and what she wants.

He huffed, shifting away from her with a grumbled, "I'm always honest."

The rejection stung. "Yes" — she turned his head, so she could hold his gaze — "but are you honest about _this_?" she asked, placing her hand on his heart. The feel of his strong heart beat made her smile. For all his strength and near indestructibleness, Steve's greatest asset was his pure golden heart. His lips turned into a frown; he wasn't good at guarding his emotions (at least not from her).

"I won't be upset if you still love Bucky."

She snorted, knowing full well that was a bold face lie. He's getting better I'll admit, she thought with a note of pride; but she knew better. Steve never did things half-way. He did things a hundred percent and had the persistence of a starving dog trying to get a bone. This was a man, who despite his plethora of illnesses, still tried to join the army five times. "Yes, you will," she said, cutting through his lie. He huffed, pulling away from her and laying on his side. Tears stung her eyes, and she had to take a few calming breaths to gather herself. She pressed herself against his back, tracing patterns on his smooth skin, feeling his muscles twitch and memorizing how they dipped and curved. "I wouldn't call it—" she stopped, thinking about her relationship with Bucky and how she still felt about it. There was a thrill with being with him, a risk that burned like a firestorm. The adrenaline rushed was something she craved but it was more from that fact that Bucky was so easy to manipulate, his emotions strings for her to pluck and tease until she got the reaction she wanted. It was no way for a romance to survive, a true relationship to continue.

It was petty and cruel and a product of the Red Room. To the Red Room, relationships were just a way to crack people open to pluck at their strings. She had learned from her mistakes with the help of Steve and Clint. They had both showed her how relationships be they romantic, platonic or familial should work. A soft surrendering of the walls around one's heart coupled with the absolute trust that the other person would not rip it out of your chest. She never understood it with Bucky. "I love the thrill of being with him," she said, lips brushing his spine as she peppered the knobs of his vertebra with soft butterfly kisses. "Did I love him at one point? Maybe, though any relationship I had before you I would hesitate to call _love_."

"What about you and Bruce?"

"You know how I kept setting you up on dates?" she gave a breathing laugh. "Or trying at least."

"I did call Sharon."

"I know, you took her to coffee and she was flirting with you and you were too polite and I think a lot of it went over your head by how red your ears got."

"How… how did you know about that?" This time he flipped over to look at her, a flummoxed expression on his face.

"What I had with Bruce was me trying to deny what I felt for you. I care about Bruce and in some ways, I relate to him" — she frowned — "but he made his feelings real clear after we dealt with Ultron. The least he could do was be a man and dump me to my face instead of running away. Coward."

"Oh, Natasha," he whispered and pulled her close to him and she accepted his comfort. This was the problem with loving anyone, they always managed to hurt you in the end. "I'm sorry."

"It's over Steve. So, to answer your original question: No, I don't love Bucky," she said, looking at him. "I love you, and you want me to be honest?"

"Always."

"Never try to seduce someone and expect to not get attached, even if it was a brief public display of affection," she said and patted his chest. "Pro tip from a pro. Never works out how you think it will."

"Natasha…" he whispered. She pressed a kiss to his lips, but he didn't return it. "I… I still love her, Nat. I'm sorry."

"I understand," she said, even if it hurt her to admit it. She wrapped her arms around him, pillowing his head against her shoulder. He nuzzled the junction between her neck and shoulder. "I understand." She didn't really. Bruce and Bucky had both been flings in the long run. The man in her arms on the other hand… he was the one waiting for her at the end of the alter in her dreams. His tears were warm against her skin and she held him until his breathing evened out into sleep. The frog on the window had jumped into the jungle and the squeaking bats broke the nighttime silence. The door hissed open and she tensed, the moonlight striking the glowing eyes of the cat. "Hey, kitty," she cooed, the cat gave her a dismissive flick of his tail before walking away. "Cats." She gave a deep sigh, tracing patterns in the dark. Steve murmured in his sleep and pulled her closer. She snuggled against him and allowed her weary body to drift off to sleep.

* * *

 _The dance hall was empty, confetti and balloons littered the ground. A banner hung over the stage with a tired saggy appearance: WELCOME HOME emblazoned on it. The band had long left, plates and cups had been whisked away though there were suspicious stains on some of the tablecloths. He looked down at himself, he was dressed in his captain's uniform, the SSR pin and double silver bars on his lapels and he wore his ribbons. He tweaked his hat in his hands, dress shoes making soft thuds against the hard floor. "Hello?" he called out, even though he couldn't see anyone. He kicked a deflated balloon, it bounced sadly for a foot or two before stopping._

 _"Took you long enough," a woman said. He turned, and his heart leapt into his throat. Peggy was standing before him in a pearl white dress with a dark belt cinched around her waist, her hair pinned back, the soft curls cascading down her neck and she painted her lips a soft red. "Feared you weren't going to make it."_

 _"Peggy," he said, a smile blossoming on his face as he set his hat on the table. He took her hands. "Wow, you look beautiful."_

 _"Thanks." She looked him up and down. "You don't look half bad yourself."_

 _He chuckled, smoothing his thumbs along her soft hands. "We won."_

 _"We did." They looked at the empty dance floor. "Come," she said, giving his hand a little tug. He stumbled, still frozen in place but followed once he regained his footing. "Let's dance."_

 _"The band's gone, can't dance without music," he said as she took his hand and placed his other on her hip. "You're so beautiful," he whispered, still not daring to believe this way real._

 _"I can carry tune, unlike you, besides this is a good way to teach you," she said and began to move. They stumbled for a few minutes, both fighting for dominance. "Steve, you either let me lead or you do it because we both can't."_

 _"Oh… right, of course," he said and began to relax, letting her lead. A piano plinked in the distance followed by the low thrum of a bass, a clarinet and saxophone joined in crooning softly and carrying the melody and harmonizing with the piano was a trumpet. He looked around and saw the band. It was small, but they played something slow and it was just for him and Peggy. He grinned, pulling her closer until she rested her head on his broad chest. He ended up leading at some point, enjoying the intimate closeness with her as he allowed the music to whisk him away. Someone began to sing in a soft husky voice. "I love you," he said and dipped his head down, giving her a tender kiss. She returned it with just as much tenderness._

 _"Steve." Peggy stepped away from him, the music dying on a mournful note. The dance hall fell into decay, the grey sky of the New York skyline peeked through the gaps in the ceiling. Weeds tumbled through the once glossy dance floor. They stood in an abandon lot, surrounded by a chain linked fence and towering skyscrapers. They hadn't changed, only their surroundings. "Steve, I'm dead."_

 _"I know," he said, squeezing her hands tightly as he heard an airplane rumble across the sky. "I know Peggy." He helped carry her casket, draped with flowers and the British flag. He still remembered the text he got telling him that Peggy had passed._

 _"You need to let me go," she said, cupping his cheek. "Please."_

 _"How can I? We never got our dance." The wind blew, causing something to creak, the welcome home banner fluttered in tatters, and on the wind was the scent of dust and concrete and car exhaust._

 _She smiled, it was melancholic. "I know," she whispered, "but you can't put your life on because of dance, Steve. That's not want for you. I told you, at some point you realize that you have to start over to go forward."_

 _"Peggy, please I—"_

 _"I want you to be happy Steve," she said, her other hand coming to frame his face. He bowed his head, feeling the tears well in his eyes. "That's all I ever want was you to be happy."_

 _"I'm happy with though. Please, I—"_

 _"Oh Steve." She hugged him, pressing her face against his chest. "We'll get another chance, I'm waiting for you."_

 _"Peggy…" he wrapped his arms around her, kissing the crown of her head. He could smell her perfume. A soft floral scent, lilies perhaps. "I don't want to let you go."_

 _"But you must," she said, looking up at him. "If you spend your present trying to hold onto the past, you'll be left behind by the future." She gave him a smile. "Besides, just because we can't go back doesn't necessarily mean it's an ending."_

 _He gave her a sad broken smile. "What future do I have without you? I love you, I wanted to marry you, have a family with you, grow old with you." The tears came then, he sniffed, wiping them away. "What chance of that now?"_

 _"Natasha," Peggy said. "You love her."_

 _"Yes, but—" he stopped when Peggy put a delicate finger against his lips. He held her hips._

 _"Give her a chance, Steve. She makes you happy, I've seen it. Love her with all of that good heart you have." She stroked his cheek. "Please. That's my final wish."_

 _He hung his head, nodding. "Okay." He pulled her into a tight hug._

 _"I'm just glad I got to see you one last time before I left."_

 _"Oh Peggy…"_

 _"No matter what happens, I'll always be with you," she said, giving him one last kiss. He closed his eyes, memorizing the feel of her lips against his. There was a gust of wind, his eyes fluttered open and Peggy dissolved into sparkles of light. "I'll always be with you."_

 _"Goodbye Peggy."_

* * *

It was bittersweet leaving Wakanda. Steve had spent the day with Bucky before his friend went back into the cryo, though Shuri promised that she was close to figuring out how to reverse the brainwashing. He had heard Bucky telling Natasha something about watching out for him, which she smiled and said something in Russian. T'Challa promised that he'll see that Sam, Wanda and Vision safely got to Europe and they exchanged hugs and sad goodbyes with promises of seeing each other again. Sam promised he'll call them if anything happened to Vision and Wanda.

Steve followed Natasha into the Stark jet, she had already settled herself into the cockpit, flicking switches. The engines hummed into life as he strapped himself into the seat beside her. "You're awfully quiet," she said as she maneuvered out of Wakandan airspace. She punched in coordinates and the GPS sprung to life.

"Had a… uh… interesting dream," he said, as they gained altitude.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"It was rather personal," he said. She nodded as she flipped a switch to engage the cloaking system.

"One of those dreams," she said, a smirk appearing on her lips. "Next time you have them, wake me, I'll help."

"What? No! No, not one…" he huffed, flushing and waving his hand. "No, it was… it was nothing, just don't want to talk about it."

"If you say so," she said and winked at him. He gave her a beady glare which she ignored. They lapsed into silence and he pulled his compass out, Peggy's picture stared back at him. He ran his thumb over it, the compass below spun as it tried to find magnetic north, but the cloaking system interfered with it. He snapped it closed.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Masardis, Maine," she said, switching it to auto pilot once they reached cursing altitude. She swiveled around to face him.

"Never heard of it," he admitted. She grinned as she took his hand, he let her and watched her draw patterns on his palm. A little smile appeared on his lips as she did so.

"Didn't expect you too. It's one of those blink and you'll miss it towns in the middle of nowhere. Clint has a second safe house there. We'll be able to lay low for a while, relax and get some rest."

"His family's okay right?" he asked. He had worried about that ever since rescuing Clint and the others from the Raft. For safety reasons, he had broken contact with Clint. "I'd hate for Laura—"

"They're fine, and they're safe. Laura's a tough nut to crack, she has to be with what Clint does for a living." She chuckled. "It was funny when they first started dating, she kept calling him on ops. There was this one in Las Vegas, we were staking out this drug dealer when she called. We almost got marked."

"How did you salvage it?" he asked.

"Same way we always do. I claimed to not know English, and Clint pretends he's deaf. Between us we convinced the goon that we had butt dialed her." Natasha laughed, squeezing Steve's fingers. He frowned in confusion.

"Butt dialed?"

She wiped her tears of mirth away. "Forgot, you were still frozen. Before everyone had smartphones, if you left your phone in your back pocket and sat on it there was a chance that the buttons could get pressed in a random order and accidentally call someone." She gave a cheeky grin. "After that I'd tease Clint and whenever he needed to get in touch with Laura I told him he needed to go butt dial her."

"Wow." He shook his head. "I'm surprised she's still with him."

"After that Clint knew Laura was the one, and the rest is history."

"Yeah," he agreed. He watched the HUDs display, the little model of the jet following the projected flight path, the time remaining was several hours. "He knows we're coming right?"

"Sent him a message, his house is a bit of a walk from the barn we'll be storing this thing in, but it's all on land that he owns." She gave his hand a squeezed. "We'll be safe there." She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "Get some rest, it'll be a long flight." She got out of the pilot's chair and went to one of the little cots in the back.

He watched the blue sky, the jet banking with the air currents. "Yeah, sleep." He didn't feel like sleeping.

He didn't sleep. Instead he paced or went through some boxing moves, did push-ups and sit ups. Sat in the pilot's chair and made adjustments to the ship when needed. He found a picture of Natasha — it was actually a group photo — and carefully cut her picture out. He pulled his compass out, staring at the picture of Natasha and his compass before putting them both away. He'll do it when he was ready.

He ended up dozing in the chair, the system beeping as they approached US airspace. "Natasha," he called, getting up and going to her. "Natasha," he said, shaking her gently. She woke with a start, her eyes adjusting to the dim light and his face leaning over her. "Natasha, we're approaching US airspace."

"Okay," she said. She yawned and stretched, going to the pilot's chair. He strapped himself into the co-pilot's chair and watched the screen. The cloaking system should hide them as they slipped into the United States, but he still worried that they could be caught. Natasha did too, as he noticed how she held her body rigid. It was late afternoon, dusk was approaching, and he was taken back to flying the Valkyrie into the ice shelf. The fear caught in his throat and he closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. Someone grabbed his hand, he opened his eyes and saw Natasha smiling at him, her hand holding his. He returned her smile.

Masardis was a beautiful picturesque town, if he could call it that. He'd call it more of a village as it reminded him of the tiny European villages he liberated as he and the Howling Commandos dismantled Hydra. "It's lovely," he said. "I was interviewed when I was doing the USO tour, someone asked what I wanted to do for retirement." He laughed a little. "I said settle down in the country with a wife and kids, painting the landscape." He looked around as Natasha guided the jet to its landing site. "I can see myself doing it here."

"That's a nice dream, Steve," she said, sparing him a glance. "Hope you get to live it one day."

"Me too," he said, "think I may have found the right partner."

"One with shared life experiences?" she asked, that smirk on her lips, a twinkle in her eyes. He chuckled, running his thumb along her knuckles.

"Yeah."

"Look, Clint's here to see us," she said, pointing to the tiny man in plaid flannel, jeans and boots. She guided the jet into the barn, it's wings folding up to make room, and switched the engine off once they had landed. The door hissed as the pressure lock was released and sank down. Clint was up it as soon as it was low enough for him to jump. Natasha ran into his arms. "It's good to see you Clint," she said.

"Good to see you too Nat," he said, holding her at arm's length. "Changed your hair. Laura's gonna throw fit about that."

Natasha tossed her head back and laughed. "How are the kids?"

"Cooper and Lila are upset we had to move, they miss their friends, but other than that they're okay," he said, and looked over at him. "Hey Cap."

"Barton," he greeted, a small smile on his face.

"Nice beard."

"Oh, yeah." He made a vague gesture to his face and went to get their bags; they didn't have much, both of them barely had a duffle bags worth of clothes and other things.

"Let me get those Cap." Clint came over and took the bags from his hand. "You're guests here. Laura would have my hide if I didn't treat you like guests."

"It's fine," he said, but allowed the other man to do so anyway. He walked down the ramp, Natasha and Clint were deep in conversation as Clint filled her in on his kids. The archer kept trying to engage him in the conversation, but it fell flat. He sighed, reveling in the sweet scent of the countryside evening. The sky was a pale blue, turning pink and lilac in the west and grey and indigo in the east. A few clouds speckled the sky and he heard the honk of geese flying to their nesting grounds for the night. It was peaceful here.

"Steve?"

"Cap?"

He looked at Clint and Natasha, worry and concern on their faces. He mustered a smile. "Go on head, I'm fine. There's something I have to do."

"Alright," she said. "We'll go on head." She ran back to him and gave him a kiss, he pulled her close depending it. "Steve?" she asked as he pressed his forehead against hers.

"I love you," he said, and his heart swelled when she smiled. They shared another brief kiss before letting her go. He laughed when Clint began to bombard her with questions. He chuckled, watching as they headed towards the house in the distance. He pulled out his compass and flipped it open. Peggy's photo stared back at him, the tiny up turn of her lips and the warmth in her eyes. He hesitated for a long moment before snapping his compass closed. He couldn't do it. "I can't Peggy, I'm sorry." He slipped his compass into his pocket. "I'm not strong enough." He headed towards the house.

* * *

 **It's okay if you cried. I did too.**

 **So this closes the door on Nat's relationship with Bucky and Bruce. Steve is still… well, he has issues letting things go.**

 **To my silent readers! Thank you, I love you! Leave a kudos in the comments if you like!**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	16. Night 13

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _Goodnight to an old soul_ _._ _Goodbye to life once lived_ _._ _This is my island now_ _,_ _to live it once more_ _._ _Not long now;_ _this time, this weightless fall, the calming mothers call._ _Back in time; I'm cleansed and bare_ _a_ _nd I see the light_ _._ _Now I know… — Auri_

* * *

Steve took his time in reaching the Barton house. The sun had set, the final rays bleeding at the edge of the western horizon, magenta and gold fading into lilac and indigo until it turned into an inky black, stars peeking out like a bucket of diamonds God had tipped over onto black velvet. The last time he saw such a sight was in the wilds of Europe, shivering around a fire with Bucky and the Commandos as they swapped childhood stories. He found the familiar constellations, remembering his mother telling him their stories.

A mournful howl of a wolf echoed across the landscape, a pack of coyotes cackled, and the wind whispered through the dry grass, ruffling his hair and pricking its way to his skin; tinged with an Artic chill, scented with pine and icy mountain peaks and the fading warmth of summer. The crickets chirped, filling the night with their melody accompany by the harmony of croaking frogs. The wolf howled again, it's called answered by others of its pack. He never heard a more lonesome cry. It was how he felt. Even after all these years in this new time, with Natasha (and the Avengers) by his side. He still felt alone, adrift… _lost_ in time. The stars twinkled. Bruce told him that the light seen from Earth have been traveling lightyears to get here, it was an old light and the star it originated from could already be dead. It was strange, feeling a kinship with the stars, who in a sense, were just as lost in time as he was.

"What are you doing out here?" Natasha asked. He gave a little jerk, snorting at the amused smile on her lips. "Must be really lost in thought if I could sneak up on you _of all people_."

"Don't get used to it," he quipped, mustering a smile for her sake. He felt as if the paradigm of their relationship had shifted ever since he confessed he still loved Peggy. He saw… _sorrow_ , in her eyes. It made his heart ache and his hand tightened further around the compass in his pocket.

"C'mon, Laura has dinner ready. Everyone is waiting for you." She looped her arm through his and gave a little tug. He looked back up at the stars. "Steve."

"Last time I saw stars like this I was huddled around a campfire in the Alps. It was a few days before I…" he blinked back the tears, his throat tightening. He hated his memory at times. All his mistakes would replay in slow motion. He remembered the sound of the train over tracks, the bite of icy wind against his cheeks, hearing the handlebar creaking and giving way, reaching for Bucky's hands and the desperate look in his friend's eyes — a mix of fear and faith — Bucky's scream as he fell into the icy chasm below. He closed his eyes at that, pulling away from Natasha as a shudder passed through his body. He had to remind himself Bucky was alive, he had survived only to be twisted into a killing machine by Hydra. "I'm sorry," he finally croaked out.

"If you want to go back to the barn, I'll just tell Clint you need a moment. He'll understand."

"I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm—"

"It's alright," she said. "It catches up to you sooner or later." She gave a little shrug. "Sometimes it just takes longer for others than for some."

"It's not like I haven't" — he swallowed and ran a hand through his hair — "just with… _everything_."

"I get it, Steve. I've been there. So, has Clint. We aren't going to judge you. Both of us have done and seen more than anyone has. Been through hell more times than we care to admit. I _get it_. If you need a moment, take it. I'll bring you some leftovers later if you want."

"It's just that I… I can't — I need—" he took several calming breaths. In the early days after the Battle of New York, Fury had latched an army of psychiatrists onto him. To assist and assesses how he was dealing with suddenly waking up almost seventy years in the future and understanding that everything he knew (and everyone he loved) is no more. He took everything in stride, though he found it difficult to just fall back into formation, take orders and march along like a good little soldier. In the seventy years since his freezing, the world had shifted from war between armies to war between spies. For a soldier it was a difficult adjustment.

The fall of Shield, learning Bucky was alive yet twisted into a monster, Sokovia, the Accords and fighting Tony and then going on the run.

Falling in love with Natasha…

All served to wear down the barriers his mind had built to protect his fragile psyche from the literal shock and awe of the entire experience. Now it was cracking. He had taken refuge in the blissful lie that once he did whatever mission he had to do in this time he could go back. He could go back and stop the Red Skull before he got onto the Valkyrie and live the life he was supposed to have, with Peggy, with the family he was supposed to have with her.

Natasha was somehow taller than him and it took him a moment to realize that he was sitting on the ground, shaking. He couldn't stop shaking. "Steve?" Natasha knelt before him, hands on his face, fingers threading through his beard. "Steve, are you alright? Deep breaths Steve. Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth." She demonstrated. He followed her lead, listening to her voice and concentrated on the rhythmic breathing. "That's it. That's it. Focus on me."

"Nat—"

"Shh, no talking, just breathe." She smiled at him, and the look she gave him broke his heart. She shouldn't be here with him. They were too different, from two different worlds. She was a spy, and he was a soldier. He pulled away, getting up on shaky legs. "Steve, you should sit down, get yourself—"

"No. I'm fine," he said. "I'm sorry, Nat, but I can't… I can't be what you want, what you need." He stared at the dead grass, shivering a bit, though if it was form the cold or his fear he wasn't sure. "You deserve someone better than me." I'm nothing more than a broken old man out of time.

She gave a weak laugh. "I'm supposed to say that," she said, trying to make light of the situation. He gave her a leveled look and watched her swallow. Peggy would want him to live his life, he knew that, hell he even dreamt it. But he couldn't let her go. Letting her go would mean he'd never get a chance to go back and that thought terrified him. And if the only way he could protect himself was by breaking his heart and Natasha's… well, Bucky told him he was an idiot for even agreeing to Project: Rebirth in the first place. "Steve."

Her pleading tone broke his heart; his jaw tightened. "I'm sorry," he repeated, and he took a step back, turning around and heading towards the barn, to the jet and the darkness, where his memories and nightmares dwelled along with the ghost of a dead woman whom he loved, the dead dream he refused to relinquished. Please Nat… call my name, say something, come after me. He kept walking.

* * *

His named died in her throat as reality sunk in; her hesitant hand going up to reach for him only to fall back to her side as his form go smaller and darker the further he went from her. She thought she had a broken heart when Alexei died, when Bruce left her, when she had to leave Bucky snuggled in their bed.

It was only now, upon realizing what Steve had meant did she realize she never had a broken heart before. It was raw agony. She felt like screaming and crying and destroying everything, but most of all, she felt like destroying herself, for if she hurt herself enough maybe the pain in her heart would stop. "He just needs some time," she told herself. "He told me he loved me… and this… this is a little much for him. Yes. A little much. Just give him some space." She nodded; and bit her lip and allowed a few tears to fall before she wiped them away. She put her mask back on as she went back towards the house.

Inside the Barton household, it was warm and filled with love. Clint was halfway to the door, with the intent of finding them. "Where's Steve?"

"He's having a moment," she said, and shared a knowing look with him. He nodded. "I told him we'll save him some dinner."

"Of course," he agreed and lead her to the table, where she sat between Lila and Cooper. Nathaniel was in his highchair between his parents, yammering away as he tried to feed himself. He couldn't be more than two or three. She couldn't remember. Clint got her a glass of water before sitting down. "Dig in everyone," he said, and everyone began passing plates around: Laura dishing out the pot pie, Clint plopping garlic mash potatoes on plates, and she put green beans on the plates. Everyone soon had food and were eating.

She smiled, laughing at all the right moments for the stories Cooper and Lila told. Teasing Clint and siding with Laura when she regaled her with some tale about how he was a terrible husband. Putting on a mask of mock offense when he took a jab at her. She felt loved, accepted, a part of the family. It was so easy to imagine the scenario different: her home she built with Steve, their own family, Clint's family over for the holidays or just to visit, more laughter and more stories shared, warm smiles and full bellies. Paradise. She never thought such a life was for her, but when Clint had taken her to see his family for the first time, and how his children accepted her to readily and so easily, it broke down some walls she built. Loving Steve broke even more walls.

"Auntie Nat, are you okay?" Lila asked. She smiled at the little girl, ruffling her hair.

"Of course, it's just been a long day," she said, and tried not to imagine a daughter of her own, with Steve's expressive blue eyes and blond hair coupled with her curls; giggling as Steve played airplane with her, holding in his strong protective arms.

"Are you sure?" Lila pressed again. She nodded and looked at her half eaten dinner, she could feel everyone eyes on her. "You didn't finish your pot pie, Mommy tells us we have to finish our plates otherwise no dessert."

"Well, I'm a bad girl. I don't get dessert," she said and tweaked Lila's nose. "But you better, I heard dessert involves chocolate."

"Don't you love chocolate?"

"Not as much as you do," she said and for show she ate a few more bites, even though the food tasted like ash in her mouth. The meal's joy evaporated after that as everyone quietly ate, until Laura declared that Cooper and Lila were to watch their little brother and Clint was to take a plate out to Steve.

"Help me with the dishes?" Laura asked. She nodded, gathering the dishes and scrapping the uneaten food onto a plate before taking the stack to the kitchen sink. They cleared the table in silence; she scrapped the plates into the chicken slop beneath the skin, rinsed them and put them into the dishwasher. Laura started to pack away the food. "What's up."

"The stars."

"Ha. Ha. My son and husband tell the same joke," Laura said, snapping lids into place and stacking food filled tupperwear. "When they are trying to not tell me something."

"Nothing's wrong Laura," she insisted as she began washing the pots and pans. "It's just been a long day."

"That may work on Lila and Clint, but it's not gonna work on me," the other woman declared and began putting the food in the fridge. She rolled her eyes, washing the dishes. Her mind wandered, the task was mindless, and she began to build the little fictional family in her head that she would have liked to have with Steve if she could (and things between them hadn't taken such a weird turn). Two children, a boy and a girl. One would have her red hair, and the other his blond. One with her green eyes and the other with his blue. They'd laugh and do family things and Steve would take to fatherhood like a fish took to water. Their pasts wouldn't haunt them, and their dreams would be filled with the sound of their children's laughter. She could even see her fictional daughter's wedding, Steve in his military uniform, walking their beautiful daughter down the aisle; the image made her heart swell with pride and joy. "Natasha you've been scrubbing the same spot on that pan for fifteen minutes."

"Oh, uh…" she made a few quick passes with the scrub-sponge and then rinsed the pan and set in the drainboard, going to the next one. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"What's wrong? Nothing's ever gotten you _this_ rattled."

"It's… personal, I don't—"

"Is it your past?" She shook her head. "Bruce leaving?" Again, she shook her head. "The Accords? Clint getting involved? The Avengers?"

"No. No, nothing like that."

"I can't tell what is if you don't talk to me." She put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Natasha. We've been friends for how many years? You've been Clint's partner for how long? You can trust me."

"I know, and it's not that I don't—" she stopped, unsure how to explain it to Laura. Laura didn't exactly have experience in dealing with loving a man out of time. "It's Steve." The fact that Laura was her friend and Clint's wife spared her, but only just. "Don't grin like that."

"I always felt that you and Bruce were kinda toxic. Like two rapid dogs trying to be friends but kept biting at each other."

"Yeah, yeah. Self-loathing coupled with self-loathing isn't a foundation for a healthy relationship, I got it." She began tackling the pot pie pan, taking her frustration out on stubborn stuck on crust. It helped if she imagined it was Steve's face. "Don't need the lecture, _Mom_."

"Funny"— Laura shot her a grin — "considering I am one." They laughed at that, the tension easing. "You know, when you guys came to visit that one time, the way Steve kept looking at you… I dare say he was pining."

"Pining? Please." She buzzed her lips like a horse.

"He looked at you the way Clint looked at me when we were dating. Something pure and untouchable and if he were to reach out and touch it, the purity would be soiled." Laura smirked. "Also, you two were flirting so causally with each other."

She flushed. "Idiot, he knows I'm not exactly an angel of purity." She worked harder at the stubborn stuck on stuff. "I made that very clear when we had to deal with Hydra."

"Oh he knows, trust me, he knows," Laura said drying the cleaned dishes. "That doesn't change the fact about how he sees you."

"Well he's stopped now."

"Is that why he wasn't at dinner?"

"What does it matter? He still got food," she grumbled. "We'll be outta your hair in a few days."

"Nat."

"It's better like this, Laura," she whispered, abandoning the sponge for the steel wool. It had a greasy funky feel in her hand, and a strange metallic rotting smell as well. Laura needed to replace it. She attacked the stubborn spots on the pot pie pan with it all the same. "Trust me."

"Is it really?"

"Why wouldn't it be? We have a good friendship, don't need to muck it up with love." The steel wool made a scratchy sound against the metal of the glass pan. "I'm Black Widow. Black Widow doesn't love. Black Widow is cold and emotionless. Black Widow only has targets." Black Widow doesn't have love, Black Widow doesn't have a husband, Black Widow doesn't have children, a family. Black Widow only has _targets_. She ground her teeth to prevent the tears from falling. Natasha Romanoff only has—

"Black Widow yes, but" — Laura put a hand on her arm, stilling her and drawing her gaze — "is Natasha Romanoff like that?"

No. No, she's not. She is just as human as everyone else and she can't understand why her heart is breaking. "Natasha Romanoff and Black Widow are one and the same." The lie came easy, she had believed it for so long.

"Really? Could've fooled me," Laura said and bumped her hip against hers. She scowled, but it was half-hearted. "I think Natasha Romanoff wants what everyone else wants. Love, friends, family, a place to call home, someone to come home to." Laura glanced at her. "Someone to build a home with."

I want that. All of it, I want to have that with Steve. She bit her lip, staring at th soapy water. "He's Captain America."

"Clint's Hawkeye. That doesn't change the fact that beneath Hawkeye is a man, just like any other, with the same hopes and desires as the rest of us."

"Black Widow and Captain America aren't—"

"Clint should have never fell for a simple farm girl, but he did." She smiled. "He found you when we were having a rough spot. I think he had feelings for you, but he'd never admit it. Then he realized that everything he wants was with me. You were friendly, but distant, kind but snarky about it."

"Thank you, for telling me I'm the reason Clint pulled his head outta his ass and popped the question to you," she snapped.

"Nat—"

She swallowed. "I'm sorry, Laura. I know you're just trying to help, but my problem is different. Steve is in love with a dead woman. A dead dream. I thought… he said he loved me… we… we… I took his virginity."

"He's a virgin?" Laura's eyes popped out of her skull. "Steve Rogers's a virgin?"

" _Was_ ," she corrected, and allowed a smug smile on her face. " _Was_ a virgin." It dropped as quickly as it appeared.

"Wait until I tell Clint. He's never gonna let Steve live that down."

"Don't," she hissed. "Don't you dare tell Clint." She licked her lips. "Please."

"Fine." Laura gave her a smile. "Since you asked nicely.

She rolled her eyes. "Then Bucky — his friend — told him about my past relationship with him. Which opened up a whole new can of worms, and I guess made Steve realize that he can't let go of his old love." She rubbed her forehead. "Or maybe he never could and my past with Bucky just… made him see sense. It doesn't matter anyway how it happened, he chose his old love over me." Saying it out loud made her realize how much it hurt. "He chose a dead woman over me." She threw the steel wool at the water. She leaned into Laura's chest when the other woman's arms wrapped around her. "I love him, Laura. I wish I can make it stop, but I can't."

"It's going to get better Nat. Trust me. He can't keep living in the past."

"He's sure damn determine to." She held Laura tighter. "I want to hate him but… I can't," she mumbled. There was an awkward cough, she and Laura looked over at the door way into the kitchen. Steve and Clint stood there. Steve had a guilty expression on his face, and she knew that he heard what she had mumbled to Laura.

"Plate, sorry it's late," Clint said, walking over to them and setting it by the sink. "I'm going to show Cap—"

"Steve, please, Clint," Steve said. "I don't feel much like Captain America."

"To the attic room."

"Oh, let me go get the bed set up then, haven't done it yet," Laura said and patted her on the shoulder. "Watch the kids, I think their program is ending."

"Sure," Clint said with a nod and went into the other room. Natasha went back to washing the dishes while Steve sat down. The silence was tense between them, broken only by the sounds of clinking dishes and splashing water. She watched him watch her via the reflection in the window. She wanted to scream at him, get him to react, instead of staring at her with those damn puppy eyes of his.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked. He nodded.

"That's good," she said and went back to her task, dealing with his final dish. She turned the dishwasher on and began to wipe down the countertops, feeling his eyes on her with each movement.

"Look, Nat, I'm—"

"It's fine Steve," she cut him off, "I get it. You're not ready. I was pushing you and—"

"You don't understand! She was my—"

"No, it's alright," she said, turning to face him. "You don't need to explain it to me, Steve." She went back to cleaning.

"You're acting like I want to end our relationship." He said, closing the gap between them. He touched her shoulder and it sent lightning down her nerves. She turned, staring at him.

"Well, isn't that what you want?" She asked, the pain burning in her chest. "You want to go back to Peggy, even though Peggy's dead. That dream you had, the one with her in it, it's dead Steve. Wake up and realize that, it died the day you went into the ice!"

He flinched. "Don't you think I know that?" he asked, his voice icy. "It was my choice, I did what I had to do and—"

"Then why are you still hung up about it? _If_ it was _your choice_ after all," she snipped, watching as his hands balled into fists. She swallowed, waiting for him to react but he must've realized she had a point for he unclenched his fists, leaning against the counter, unable to face her.

"I… I don't know," he said. "Everything felt… _different_ when we were on the run." He looked at her, a sad broken expression on his face. "I still loved Peggy, still thought about her, but… it was so easy to get caught up in the moment. Made it a good way not to die."

"It did," she agreed. They didn't have time to think about their past when they were on the run. It had been focused, narrowed: protect Wanda, protect Sam, protect each other. Get the op done, move to the next hiding spot. Back then, she still wasn't sure if what she felt for Steve was love or friendship all she knew was that she wanted him to be closer to her and she wanted to be in his life. Being on the run was all about survival and that brought out raw instinct, primal emotions like love and fear. Their almost kiss in Berlin, him holding her after her nightmare in Armenia. "You said you loved me."

"I did, yes and I still—"

"In my dream," she said, realizing that the floor was more interesting than his face. Laura needed to wash it, she could see sticky juice spots. Maybe she could do that for Laura in the coming days. "Back in Armenia." It was only a few months ago, but it seemed like a life time ago. "You wanted to be so much more than just my friend and I pushed you away. I was so scared."

"I remember," he said, closing the gap between them a bit more. "You were hurt and had been captured. Even after I told you to fall back."

"I got those civilians out—"

"You could've gotten yourself killed—"

"But I didn't!" she said, moving to the side, she locked his gaze with his. "And I took out Zima, who was behind the entire thing—"

"We would've gotten him without you risking your life—"

"And how long would that have taken us?" she asked, she was close enough to him now that their toes were touching, her head angled up to look at him, his tilted down to stare at her. "Another month? A year?"

"Answer the question you want to ask, Romanoff."

"Don't call me that, _Rogers_ ," she said, eyes flashing, "you said so yourself that puts distance between us."

"Maybe I want distance between us."

She smirked, feeling his hands on her forearms. He was the first to bridge the gap. "We're like parallel lines. Always close, never together."

"Until one reaches out and touches the other," he said, eyes fixed on his hands, before looking at her face. The pain and struggle she saw in his eyes, it was tearing him in two and it would come to the point for him to choose between the dead dream he clung to or her.

With a flick of her ankles, she was in en pointe and tall enough to reach his lips. She kissed him, soft and fleeting, settling back on her feet just as fast as she had kissed him. The shock on his face made her heart flutter. "Choose wisely," she whispered, stepping to the side and going back to cleaning.

"Steve," Laura reappeared with a towel and some musty smelling pjs. "Here's a towel and some of Clint's old pjs that he doesn't wear anymore."

"I don't think they'll fit, but thank you," he said, accepting them.

"If they don't fit, I can uh… see if I can't find something," she said, scratching her head awkwardly.

"It's fine, I can sleep in the nude," he said and Natasha felt his gaze on her. "So long as I have someone to keep me warm."

She choked on her spit and heard Laura make a weird strangled sound like a dying cat. "Steve," Natasha croaked.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Laura muttered and left to check on her kids, face red. She watched the exchange through via the window's reflection as she rung out the rag; her cheeks felt hot and she wondered how they'll ever keep their hands off each other. Laura came back and informed Steve where the attic room was and the bathroom. He thanked her again walked off. "I don't want to hear _anything_ ," she said. She laughed, looking at Laura. "I'm serious Natasha. The attic room is right above the master bedroom. It creaks, I don't want to hear _noises_."

"I promise to send down some earplugs for you and Clint before if Steve and I get it on tonight," she said and winked. Laura shook her head.

"So, what did you tell him?" Laura asked.

"To choose wisely."

* * *

 **I kinda wanted this chapter to be longer, but I feel like this is a good place to end. Chapters should be coming more regularly now that I'm done with school, but I'll be job hunting so yay stress! XD**

 **I have no idea where this story is heading or how it'll end.**

 **I love Infinity War. Steve and Nat together is just… wonderful.**

 **Thank you to my silent readers! Leave a kudos in the comments.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	17. Out of the Darkness

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _Out of the darkness, we came running_ _._ _Out of the darkness, we came running_ _._ _Leaving all our ghosts and our hurt behind, leaving that bag of stones behind_ _… i_ _n the darkness, we keep running…_ _There's a need to believe,_ _so we dwell on our dreams_ _and somehow we forget to live,_ _but you wake me up, you wake me up…_ _See the clouds rolling in and we know what they'll bring and the fears_ _crawling down your spine_ _,_ _calling your name… — My Indigo_

* * *

Steve had to stoop to walk in the attic room, if he didn't he'd get a face full of dusty cobwebs and maybe a spider or two in his mouth. He wasn't keen on that, so he stooped. The room was cozy, though lacked pictures, there was a ladder leading down to the second floor and another door leading to the rest of the attic; it was for storage. Two circular windows on either end; one had the full-size bed beneath it and the other had a cushioned chest. The chimney ran through the wall between the storage side and the living side. His and Natasha's bags had already made it up, tucked at the foot of the bed. "Sorry about the mess," Clint said, poking his head up from the trap door. "If you need to move anything just toss it into the other room, I'll get to it eventually." He gave him a cheeky grin. "Laura's been yammering at me to get it cleaned."

"Oh, no, its fine," he said, smiling at the archer. "Just… last time I was in a tight place like that I was five-four, so it felt bigger back then." He made a face. "Now it just feels—"

"Cramped?"

"Yeah," Steve said, nodding in agreement. "Bit claustrophobic."

"I can see if we can't clear out the spare room downstairs. We hadn't had a chance to unpack anything, so everything is just piled in the actual guest room."

"No, it's fine," he said. "It's fine Clint, really. I appreciate you letting us stay here. Thank you."

"What are friends for," Clint said, "besides Nat's like a sister to me, so I can't turn her away. I'd never hear the end of it from my mother or my mother-in-law" — he grinned at that — "trust me Steve, don't get on the bad side of a mother-in-law."

"Well, I don't think I'll have to worry about that," he said. He put the duffle bag on the bed and pulled out a clean pair of underwear and a t-shirt. "You uh… can I take a shower?" he asked, gathering up the garments and his toilette tree wrapped in his towel.

"Sure," Clint said and a moment later there was a thump as he landed on the floor beneath. Steve climbed down and went to the bathroom. He showered and brushed his teeth, his mind wandering as he lost himself in the repetitive motions. For a moment he saw Peggy staring at him through the glass.

 _Let me go Steve, please… you must._

He spat into the sink and rinsed out his toothbrush. I'm seeing things, it's just my mind playing tricks on me, that's all. He never had a chance to _mourn_ Peggy. The entire situation with Bucky and the Sokovia Accords… his grief seemed irrelevant and minuscule compared to everything else. Then he was on the run and Natasha came back into his life. It was too much for him when all he wanted to do was cry over the fact Peggy was gone. He couldn't cry though — he picked up the small pair of scissor and his razor, his beard had gotten too thick for his liking — he was Captain America, the Sentinel of Liberty (he wondered who came up with these monikers), and he had to be the stalwart unmovable force in the face of all odds — he tapped the hair clogged razor against the side of the sink, rinsed it and went back to shaving — the world didn't care that Steve Rogers lost someone he loved, the world didn't care that beneath the mantel of Captain America was a man with emotions, hopes, dreams, fears of his own. No, the world never cared about any of that. The world only cared about Captain America, and Captain America didn't cry, didn't break.

He splashed water on his face to get rid of the excess shaving cream; patting his cheeks dry before taking the scissors and trimming his beard until it was flush with his face, shaping it around his lips. He looked… better, less haggard. His face felt light too. He splashed some water and wiped his face again before cleaning up after himself. He opened the door to see Natasha, fist raised to knock. He swallowed, taking in her startled expression. "Nat."

"Steve." She flicked her eyes up and down. "Aw, guess I won't get to keep you warm."

He laughed weakly. "Yeah, too bad, so bad." He rubbed the back of his calf with his foot, slipped passed her and gestured towards the bathroom. "All yours, water's nice and warm, just for you."

"You're so considerate," she said, a teasing lilt to her voice. "Guess I'm sleeping on the couch since you don't need me."

"Bed's big enough," he said with a shrug, "no need to make more work for Laura." He tugged at a loose thread on his towel, glancing at the pictures on the walls. Clint and Laura's wedding, Cooper's birth, Lila's birth, Nathaniel's birth. The older two children at various stages of life, a picture of all the Avengers. He touched it, remembering when that day. He felt like he had found a family, a hodgepodge clobbered together one, but a family nonetheless. "I remember when that was taken," he said, pointing to the picture. "Third year being outta the ice, just after Shield fell. Tony joked that it was a family photo."

"It kinda is," she agreed. "The good ol' days, huh?"

"Yeah." He nodded, missing everyone in that photo. He still carried that burner phone, still checked it and kept it charged, waiting for Tony to call. He never did. _So was I_. He closed his eyes at that, the bitterness in Tony's voice when he said that, the utter hurt that he was choosing Bucky over him. He jerked when he felt Natasha's hand on his arm. "Hm?"

"Get some rest," she said, "I'll be up in a few minutes." She kissed his cheek, gave him a smile and slipped into the bathroom. The door shut behind her with a soft click and he stood there, in nothing but his boxers and a t-shirt, besides the bathroom door. He shook himself, realizing a small child could stumble upon him at any moment and retreated to the attic room.

* * *

The trapped door creaked, Natasha's damp blonde head appeared, and she hauled herself up. "Think it'll get too cold tonight?" She kicked the trap door close.

"Heat rises, so…" he gave a shrug, snapping the compass closed. "I've slept in worst places, colder places enough."

"I know" — she gave him a cheeky grin — "you had a bed of ice for the last seventy years."

He rolled his eyes. "That's not what I meant." He set the compass on the nightstand and crawled into bed. He propped his head up, watching her get ready for bed. She dried her hair, squirted some leave in conditioner into her palm and ran it through her blonde locks, then applied facial cream to her cheeks and hand lotion to her arms and legs. Her pajama shorts hung low and her hips and one strap of her sleep-tank fell off her shoulder.

"You watching me, Steve?" she asked, mock glaring at him. He smirked, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

"Just enjoying the view," he said. She slinked towards him on cat-silent feet, the bed sagged when she climbed in, her lithe body covering him, and she stared down at him. Her expression was unreadable with her viper-smirk and smoldering eyes. He swallowed, cheeks growing hot; she pushed him on his back, sitting on his stomach. "Darling?" he breathed, voice husky and he felt a bit nervous. She kissed his brow and slid off him, snuggling against his side. He pouted.

"Oh don't pout." She giggled, poking him in the ribs until he squirmed. "Steve," she said. "I'm sorry… about what I said. About how your dream with Peggy died when you went into the ice."

The silence pressed in around them, oozing into all the negative spaces. He flicked the desk lamp off, plunging the room into darkness and pulled her close. "You were right," he said. "No need to apologize."

"Still," she said as she pillowed her head against his bicep. "I'm sorry. I know how much she meant to you."

You have no idea. He closed his eyes, nuzzling her nape and a ragged sigh escaped his lips. "Thank you," he said. "I appreciate it."

"Shortly after I got done with my training, two or three years maybe, I was married to a test pilot."

"You were married?"

"Yeah." She nodded. "I was. His name was Alexi Shostakov. It was an arranged marriage, we didn't love each other at first but eventually… we learned to. It was nice, while it lasted." She half-smiled in the darkness. "Then one day I came home from a mission to our empty apartment, there was a KGB agent that was associated with the Red Room sitting at the kitchen table. Told me Alexi was dead."

"I'm sorry, Nat," he said, lips brushing the back of her neck. "If there's anything—"

"No," she said, rolling over to face him. "There isn't. Zima told me Alexi may still be alive, but—" she shrugged, pressing her face into the crook of his neck.

"But what?"

"I love you. So even _if_ Alexi's alive, it doesn't matter." She sighed, he felt her lashes brush against his skin as she closed her eyes. "No sense in going back."

The words hung heavy between them; the silence gleeful and gloating as it wormed it's bullying way between them. Peggy had told him something similar, that at some point you realize that the only way to move forward was to start over. There _was_ no going back. He didn't say anything, trying to pluck up the courage to do so and by the time he had gathered a sufficient amount, Natasha was asleep; her even breathing fanning the pulse point on his neck. He watched her, studying how her face went slack in sleep, the tension leaving her body; like a predator, her guard was down. It took him a moment to realize that she felt safe in his arms and the subconscious hyper vigilance that commanded her waking hours completely dissipated now. He envied her. He envied her because she felt secure and it was because of him. In the past he'd have felt a sense of honor that someone trusted him in such an intimate fashion, now he just felt a sense of inadequacy and regret. He couldn't protect those most important to him.

Natasha murmured something, snuggling closer to him and the nighttime sounds seeped peaceful tendrils out from the shadowy places of the house. Creaks and groans, squeaks and moans, a dripping faucet somewhere downstairs, Natasha's soft breathing, Clint's snores. The muffled howl the wolves and the laughing of the coyotes. Patterns in the darkness dancing before his eyes as he laid awake, Morpheus refusing to visit him. So, he listened to the house sigh, brooding as it protected its occupants from the prodding night. In this cocoon of darkness, his mind wandered down the long corridors of his memory, through time and place; memory after memory.

The night enjoyed coaxing his worst memories to the surface. His mother, pale and forlorn as she hacked up her lungs in their tiny Brooklyn apartment. Her eyes bright and feverish, sweat beading her brow. He called him by his father's name a few times, locked in fever dreams; telling him how she wished she could see Ireland once more: the rolling hills, green in the grey morning mist, smell the salty North Atlantic and hear the gulls cry as they circled the cliffs and the castle by the sea. Then she would cry, tears cascading down her cheeks, mourning the man he never knew anew; she'd tell him how he promised he'll come back from the trenches, how they'd go back to Ireland one day and live there again; she'd curse his father, too, demanding to know why he left her to raise their overly sick son all on her own, miles away from any kith or kin, in a country that looked down upon the Irish folk as if they were no better than the blacks. In her moments of lucidity near the end, she would cup his cheek and tell him what a good boy he was, quitting school and putting his own dreams and aspirations on hold to take care of his dying mother, how his father would be so proud of him for his noble sacrifice and how sorry she was for burdening him in such a fashion. He remembered smiling and telling her he was just being a good son, and that its no bother, he was happy to do this, she was his mother and he loved her. He'd have time later to go to art school and study under the French masters in Paris. It was an empty hope, but he clung to it all the same, even if he went to the roof at night to cry as his world sundered apart before his eyes and he was helpless to stop it.

She died. The war broke out three years later and when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor on December 7th, 1941; he, Bucky and several other young men from their neighborhood and made their way down to the recruiting office to sign up. He remembered listening to Roosevelt make his famous speech on the radio as he read the newspaper waiting for his name to be called. The doctor took one look at his medical record, asked what his father and mother died of and stamped the dreaded 4F in the box on the lower right corner of the paperwork before handing it back to him. Bucky came out a bit later, IA on his paperwork and telling him he was to head to basic training in a few days. Bucky was crushed when he had said that the army rejected him. He considered trying the Navy on the off chance they were just _that desperate_ to take a frail young man desperate to help with the war effort but decided against it. So, he went back to the Army, this time saying he was from various town in New England and the Midwest. Five times. Five 4F stamps. In the in-term he did his part, collecting scrap metal and rubber when he could, went to work and sat on the corner drawing portraits for young couples who had loved ones going overseas soon. The handsome young men — in their olive-green uniforms or navy jumpers, their peaked caps and Dixie cups jauntily cocked upon their heads — their pretty dames smiling on their arms. He'd smile and charge twenty-five cents.

Then at the World Expo he met Dr. Erskine and agreed to his mad proposal to participate in this secret program to fight Nazis. Despite his plethora of health issues, Erskine had selected him, turned him into a super soldier and he stopped a Hydra spy — or tried to at least, the man had killed himself before anyone had gotten to them. Colonel Philips had wanted him in a lab being studied like a bejeweled rat, but the Senator had different plans: promoting him to captain (he remembered vaguely wondering if the Senator could _just_ hand out officer commissions like that or if because he was who he was if this was a special case). He toured the country for a year, selling war bonds and acting in films and other propaganda to keep the moral of the American people at home high and going strong. And while he was kissing babies and posing for pictures and signing autographs and punching Hitler (yes, he was aware it was just an actor, his name was Bob Radley, nice fella) over two hundred times, he knew that Bucky and the other young men of his neighbourhood and the country were fighting and dying in the Pacific and Europe; the understanding galled him. He could make a real difference in the war against Tōjō and Hitler, yet here he was prancing around like a trained monkey to the piper's tune.

Then he made it to Europe with the USO, and the stark reality had hit him hard. He put on a brave face, brushing it off and believing that these men that have seen hell and horrors he couldn't fathom would warm up to him and his little circus act. Peggy had saved him, that and learning that Bucky's unit had been captured and the desperate need to rescue his friend. He came back, rescued Bucky and four hundred other men; Colonel Philips had realized then that they had been hiding their best weapon — him — behind the mantle of war bond salesman. He led the Howling Commandos, dismantling Hydra, liberating Nazi prisoner of war camps, helping turn the tide of skirmishes. Stories of Captain America spread through the Allies' ranks, commanders used his possible showing up to instill a hope into their men to keep fighting, because maybe he'd appear — shield glinting in the sunlight — to break the Nazi lines and lead the charge to victory. Towards the end, the mission of the Howling Commandos shifted more towards rooting out Hydra. Though he did help liberate one concentration camp — Buchenwald. Never before had he seen such gaunt and haunted faces, men and women staring back at him as if he was a god descended from the heavens or a figment of their imaginations. It was sobering, leading the skeletal prisoners out, telling them it was okay, they are Americans and are here to help and that they were free; they didn't believe it, mistrust clear in their cadaverous eyes. He wasn't sure how he felt — hollow, empty, terrified — he sat with Peggy that night, sketching the ghoulish prisoners, he couldn't get the images out of his head, so he put them on paper. At least on paper they became tangible, _something_. He and Peggy shared a few words, stories about their respective childhoods, and then she went to bed. He trudged his way back to his bunk, only to find Bucky sobbing in the darkness. He had held his friend, listening to Bucky try to rationalize what they had seen that the camp, telling him how he'd never protest or complain about anything ever again. He cried too after a few minutes, the blatant horror he witnessed… the inhumanity of the human creature, was too much to bare.

Bucky's death — he still called it that for lack of a better way of explaining it — had followed on the heels of Buchenwald. Remembering it always happened in slow motion: the Hydra soldier attack him, Bucky picking up his shield to in an effort to make a valent stand against the man he was no match for, the blue energy striking the shield and since Bucky didn't have his enhance strength, he went flying into the side of the railcar, busting it open. The creak of the broken handle, Bucky's eyes filled with terror as he tried to reach for him — the barest brush of his fingers — watching him fall, his scream ringing in his ears (Bucky's scream still haunted him, plaguing him in the dark hours of the night). He buried his pain, forcing himself to continue on. He couldn't get drunk, not that drinking would numb the pain any, but he wanted to _forget_ — just once — everything and he couldn't do that. Peggy had told him to honor Bucky's sacrifice, and he did. He gathered his heavy broken heart and soldiered on, defeating the Red Skull, making empty promises with the memory of her kiss still upon his lips. He had crashed the Valkyrie into the ice, saving the world, helping to end the war and while everyone he cared about believed he was dead.

If someone asked him if he remembered anything from his time in the ice, he'd say no. All he remembered was blackness and memories. His mind replayed every memory over and over until he regained consciousness. He woke up, seventy years in the future to the threat of aliens invading and the reality that the Norse gods existed. Afterwards, he tracked down everyone he used to know — most were dead, the living ones too senile to remember — and found himself alone in a new century, a new millennium. Finding had been a small comfort, but she had moved on, leaving him behind in 1945. He didn't blame her, how could he? To the world he was dead. Yet, it still hurt a lot to know she hadn't waited for him like in the stories of his childhood; and to add insult to injury, he learned that his sacrifice had been in vain. Hydra had seeped into the aching fearful wound left from the war and festered; putrefying and infecting the good intentions of a world trying to prevent another Hitler from rising again. An unholy phoenix rising from the necrotic flesh of its host. He had burned it in cleansing fire; bringing down Hydra in a maelstrom of fire, metal and blood. The charred bones laid at the bottom of the Potomac.

Yet, the worst thing to learn in this new time was that Bucky had survived only to be twisted into an agent of Hydra, a ghastly assassin with a metal arm that always got his mark. He had read the file Natasha got him, read the list of people Bucky had killed. It broke his heart — he punched the wall of his apartment in fact — when he learned that Bucky had killed Howard Stark and his wife. While Bucky and Howard never got a long per se, both men were his friends and to know he had lost them both in different ways had hurt. Sam tried to help, using his experience with vets suffering from PTSD from VA, but Steve had brushed him off. Natasha had been right, tracking Bucky had been a dead end; until the Sokovia Accords and Zemo's plot to shatter the Avengers surfaced.

He hated the entire thing, he disagreed with the Accords, with how Tony was insisting on them — he saw how government oversight mucked things up first hand during the Great Depression, all of Roosevelt's alphabet soup programs hurt the country more than the Depression had (he had read everything he could find on his era after the ice) — and how he felt that it was a violent breach of civil liberties. Peggy had died amidst it all; he had to forget his crushed heart, pick up its piece and shove them into his pockets and carry on, the dead could wait for mourning, but the living needed him.

A gust of wind buffed the house, jerking him out of his doze (when did he fall asleep he?), eyes wide and fearful, the ghosts of his past flickering in the shadows. Natasha snuggled against him, murmuring in her sleep and he brought himself back to the present, away from the beckoning memories. "It's in the past," he whispered, "can't hurt you." He pulled her closer and closed his eyes again, drifting off again, where his mind assaulted him anew.

Siberia was hellish, bleak and cold. Zemo gloating in his bomb proof bunker as Tony attacked Bucky; he tried to intervene, to calm Tony down, to make his friend see reason. But Tony had closed himself off to reason and logic, there was only seething hatred left. He fought one friend, while trying to protect the other and in the end, there was only blood — Bucky's blood — splattered on the white snow and iron grey walls. Bucky's eyes glassy and lifeless, his cybernetic arm severed, sparks and melted metal glowing orange in the dim light. A rage he never experienced flooded him and he attacked Tony with all the strength his possessed, smashing the weaker points of Tony's armour until he had the other man prone on the ground. He tore Tony's faceplate off, tore the bevor in half and wrapped his fingers around Tony's throat, squeezing the life out of him. "St-Steve," Tony gasped, clawing at his crushing hand, he raised the other to bash Tony's face in. "Steve, it's… it's me— Natasha. _Steve!_ "

" _Steve!_ " Clint's voice broke through his dream; Tony's image vanished as reality crashed around him. The trap door was open, the hall light was on and faintly illuminating the attic room and he felt Clint's hands on his shoulders. "C'mon Steve let her go — damn it, you're choking her! Her lips are starting to turn blue!"

Good, he deserves it for what he did to Bucky — wait, what? _Her_? Steve blinked, eyes focusing on Natasha, who stared back at him in terrified confusion, her lips tinting blue and face too pale. "Oh God!" he let go of her throat as if contact with her skin burned him and scrambled away. Natasha sucked in air with a loud gasp, color returning to her face. Clint was by her side, asking her what happened as if she was okay. She rubbed her throat and he felt their eyes on him. He shook, getting to his feet in a numb daze. He pulled a pair of sweats and a coat, brushing pass them and left the house.

* * *

Steve tugged the collar of his coat around his neck tighter, shivering in the pre-dawn gloom. It was still dark, the faintest of glows on the eastern horizon, the only hint that dawn was on its away. The events from earlier kept replaying in his mind: his dream, Natasha beneath him with his hand crushing her throat, Clint horrified face; Cooper had woken up and was standing beside his mother, the way Laura flinched, pulling her son closer to her as if he was somehow dangerous.

He closed his eyes against the pain, the ache building up in his chest, in his throat, behind his eyes. He wanted to cry, yet he didn't. The landscape was silent. The wolves had stopped howling, the coyotes no longer cackled, the frogs and crickets had bedded down for the colder parts of the night. Only the wind kept him company, rustling through the dry grasses, sighing through the drafty lofts of the old barn and folded wings of the Stark jet. Every now and then it howled, buffeting him with icy cold. He hated the cold, more than anything; Sam had joked he really was an old man. But he hated the looks in the eyes of his friends more. Monster, their stares said. _Monster_.

He always had been aware of his strength. It had never been a problem before because he was aware of his abilities, plus he had the tendency to be reserve with the patience of a saint (he had his impulsive tendencies, especially when it was connected to something he held dear). He reminded himself that he wasn't like Bruce. Yet, that didn't change the fact that he had hurt Natasha.

God, I could've killed her. He rubbed his face, ran a hand through his hair. I should just leave. He glanced at the jet behind him and sighed. Not for the first time, he wished he had died the day he crashed the Valkyrie into the ice. Then survivor's guilt would plague him, his regrets burdening him. He looked up when he heard footsteps, the sky slate grey and Natasha standing before him. "Steve," she said, her voice soft and a bit hoarse. He fixated on the purple hand shaped bruise on her throat; it ripped his heart out. He swore he'd never hurt her and he did.

Maybe Schmidt was right, maybe I _am_ just like him. "Jesus, I'm so sorry Nat."

She gave him a smile as she sat beside him. "I forgive you." She patted his arm, and he flinched at her touch, though if it bothered her she didn't show it. She settled her hands in her lap. "I've had nightmares before. Hurt people I cared about in my sleep before, too. Don't beat yourself up about it," she said. "We're all experienced it before in our line of work."

"I hurt you." He stared at the sky, watching the stars begin to fade, no match for the light of the sun. The night retreating in the wake of day, slow and peaceful, Helios leading the way for Hemera. "I love you and I hurt you. What kind of man am I? What kind of man hurts the woman he loves?" He looked at his hands and all he saw them around Natasha's fragile throat. He swallowed thickly, self-hatred settling like a rock in his gut; he refused to let the tears fall. "The Red Skull said we were the same. Both men that have surpassed mere mortals. He had embraced what he became and said that I hadn't." He stared at his awful hands. "He was a monster… and at the time I knew I wasn't like him. How could I be? I was an American, I believed in freedom, justice and liberty. I was on the right side of the war. One of the good guys." He gave a weak laugh. "But now… now I wonder if he was right. That I'm just like him. A monster."

The slap across his face rung in the twilit air. Nothing stirred, even the encroaching dawn halted is advance in surprise. He stared at her in open surprise, blue eyes disbelieving. "Don't you ever say that again Steve Grant Rogers," she seethed. "Don't you even think it! You are nothing like the Red Skull. You hear me? _Nothing._ " Her vitriol surprised him, and he swallowed a bit in nervous shock. "You are a good man. An honest man. A noble man. The man I love, and you are not monster." Her shoulders slumped, eyes softening as the fiery passion left them. A melancholic smile graced her lips as she cupped his face. "You are the sweetest, kindest and most honorable man I know. You are a good man. A good man with a good heart in a world that shits on people like you." She pulled him into a hug. "And that's why the world needs men like you."

He cried into her neck. Cried for his mother, for Bucky, for Peggy, for her, for himself. She held him; not judging him but accepting him. The eastern horizon was bleeding orange and soft pink, the sun inching its way into the sky. His tears stop as the first rays of the new day touched awashed them in aureate light. He pulled away, sniffling and wiping his tears with his thumb. He found his voice after a moment or two. "I never got a chance to mourn her… Peggy. The Sokovia Accords, Bucky… everything. It all happened so fast that I just buried it deep and now that I have a moment… it… it just all came flooding up" — he squeezed her hand, watching the sky — "it hurts Nat. It hurts so much. God, I miss her. I can't believe she's gone. We never had a chance. Between the war and Hydra, we never had a chance. And then I wake up and its has if I'm still stuck in '45 and she has moved on, left me behind. I feel so lost, adrift." He shook his head, his bangs falling into his eyes and he pushed them back with a haggard sigh. "The shrinks Shield had all said I was adjusting well, that I wasn't suffering from PTSD or anything else" — he gave a derisive snort — "what did they know. I'm just good at hiding my pain. Had to be with how I grew up, didn't want to worry my mother too much." He looked at the paling sky, indigo had given way to magenta and cerulean followed on its heels. "So now that she's gone I'm afraid to let go. Afraid to start over, even though I know I have to."

"I know," she said. "I know that feeling too. I felt the same way when Clint pulled me out. You feel like you're on semi-auto. Moving through life but not fully there. You fake it until it hurts, just to keep others from worrying but inside you're falling apart and everywhere you turn there are ten thousand obsidian sharp memories slicing you open and you are just drowning in them. Drowning and reaching for a life line that isn't there."

"Yeah."

"The difference between you and I is that I was alone" — she looked at him — "you're not alone Steve. I won't let you be alone."

It was then that the darkness that had shrouded his soul, that had grown thicker with Peggy's death broke apart; the light of Natasha's love piercing it like the first rays of dawn. He bit his lip to keep it from trembling as he pulled her into a tight embrace, whimpering as he gathered himself. It hurt, letting go, but he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He could do this, step out of the darkness and into light. He had a new guiding star. The sunlight felt warm on his skin; he looked up at the sky, a clear pale blue and for a moment he saw Peggy with a knowing loving smile on her face.

Whatever happened, whatever the future had in store for them, he could face it. He had Natasha by his side and she would never let him be alone again.

* * *

 **SEQUEL - ALL I NEED**

 **Sorry it took me so long to get this up, but** _ **someone**_ **complained about Steve feeling like two different people so I spent two weeks or thereabouts. This chapter was vastly different originally but it just felt…** _ **right**_ **doing it this way in the end.**

 **Ironically, it feels as if this tale is at an end. I'm not sure what else to do really. Well, I guess Natasha still has some past demons. I'll sleep on it. I actually know how the final scene of this story goes, so… (it ties into Infinity War so nicely too).**

 **A brief blurp about history in the bit about Steve's mother: both the blacks and the Irish were horribly mistreated in American history, both groups had reasons to hate WASPs (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant), that being said, a black woman faced** _ **slightly**_ **better prospects than an Irish woman in the 20s and 30s. If you wish to discuss this further, please PM. I believe in historical accuracy and the fact is both the Irish and blacks were mistreated.**

 **Buchenwald was the first concentration camp liberated by US forces, on April 11, 1945. The war with Germany ended May 7, 1945. I wanted Steve to help liberate a camp for two reasons. 1. I think he did help liberate at least** _ **one**_ **camp, and that truly showed him the inhumanity of not only Hitler and the Nazis but also Schmidt and Hydra (because you know I both know Schmidt siphoned workers off of the camps). 2. Having him** _ **not**_ **help liberate a camp is completely not within his moral code, plus I headcanon that prior to April-May of 1945, he helped with other parts of the war as they hunted down Hydra camps. So he liberates Buchenwald. I also put Bucky's "death" near the end of April and the Steve's fight with the Red Skull in the first week of May. (I know I'm going to get shit from some rabid fanboy asking if I even seen the First Avenger, yeah buddy, I have. Thrice!)**

 **Save an author; leave a review**

 **Love to all my silent readers.**

 **Nemo et Nihil**

 **PS: This chapter made me cry, I had to collect myself for a moment after writing the passage with Steve's mother. It hit too close to home.**


	18. Hold on to Memories

**MCU (c) Marvel**

* * *

 _The time will come when all of us say goodbye; feel that aching in your heart leaving you broken inside, but we're never really one as long as there's a memory in your mind. So now go do the best things in life. Take a bite of this world while you can. Make the most of the rest of your life. Make a ride of this world while you can. Take the ones you love and hold them close because there is little time. And hold on to memories, hold on to every moment to keep them alive. The world's greatest tragedy: souls who are not remembered, cannot survive._ _— Disturbed_

* * *

The last time he felt a sense of peace was moments before he lost consciousness. He was at peace knowing he saved the world, protected it from Schmidt's evil. He was at peace knowing that at least he lived his life the way he chose, he was at peace that he got to at least love Peggy — even if it was for a little bit. He was at peace and then blackness had engulfed him.

Now, this feeling of peace was different. It was a freeing type of peace, his soul unburdened by the baggage he carried around with him. Liberating; he understood what Peggy meant by rebuilding. He had to be broken down in order to rise again, a phoenix reborn from the ashes of the life he once knew. And with that rebirth, he was able to love himself again, love someone new with all he possessed. He will always love Peggy, she changed his life so much, but there was plenty of room for Natasha, he just hadn't seen it. He smiled at her, tucked against his side, their hands entwined and watching the dawn. If he could stay with her forever like this, he'll be a happy man.

"Clint's not mad," she said, after a moment.

"Huh?" he frowned, wondering why Clint would be mad at him. He didn't do anything to anger the archer, at least he didn't think so. He looked out across the field, he could hear birds in the bushes, singing their ode to the dawn, the last of the summer's robins bobbing along with the red breasts puffed out as they looked for worms.

"He's not," Natasha insisted, "he's just concerned about you… about what happened last night." Her fingers graced the bruising on her neck. His blood chilled as his memory of that night came flooding back: the nightmare, choking Tony only to realize that he was choking Natasha, running to the jet and crying in Natasha's arms.

"Oh," he whispered, he brushed his fingertips against her tender neck, guilt washing him anew. "Nat, I—"

"I told you," she said, taking his hand and kissing his palm. "I forgive you. I strangled Clint once in my sleep. Actually, I've broke his ribs once or twice while I was sleeping too. I'm a violent sleeper." She quirked a smile. He stared at his hands, not wanting to meet her gaze. He looked up when she bumped his shoulder. "We've dealt with this stuff before, Steve. We understand that sometimes our demons reappear in our dreams and we hurt those we care about in our dreams. Clint's slept a few times on the couch because he's had a bad day, so he doesn't hurt Laura if he has a bad dream."

"I know, it's just that I—" he licked his lips. "I don't want to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you."

"You can never hurt me, Steve," she said; he felt his eyes well with tears, "at least not intentionally."

"Is that why you never brought up Peggy?" he asked. She titled her head, flummoxed at his question. "I mean… you _knew_ I loved her, that I still love her… that I, well uh—" he stopped talking when she pressed her finger against his lips. He never realized how soft her hands are or how green her eyes were with her hair that platinum blonde.

"It hurt," she said, "to know that the man I was falling in love with still clung to a dead dream—"

"Nat, I'm—"

"Ah-uh, I'm talking." She wagged her finger in front of his face. "But I knew your history. I saw the classified newsreels. Hell, Steve I drove you to the nursing home a few times. I knew what she meant to you. That's why I didn't want you to be alone at the church that day. Who am I to begrudge you your mourning. Yeah, it hurt, but I understood that hurt." She closed her eyes, pulling away from him and wrapping her arms around herself. "I've felt that hurt too."

He swallowed, his throat tight. He rubbed at his eyes and reached for her but lowered his hand. "It's Bucky right?"

She shook her head. "No, Bucky and I… we were two lost souls trapped in the darkness and too comfort in each other's speck of light. Once I… once I… once it ended, I moved on. Bruce and I tried to start something but he ran away for whatever reason," she said and tilted her head up to stare at the cerulean sky. "No, I know that hurt because of my ex-husband" — she swallowed, he saw the muscles contract, the sheen of tears in her eyes — "I loved him, Steve. He was my first love. After years in the Red Room, being taught to forget how to feel, how to have a heart, Alexi gave my heart back to me" — she licked her lips, bowing her head — "when I was told he was dead…" she gathered herself, wiping at her eyes and giving him that blithe smile he had come to recognize as mask to hide how much she was hurting inside. "Well, I understood your pain."

He nodded, setting his hand near hers, his pinky resting on top of hers. Her smile was soft and open, understanding and supportive, her love clear in her eyes. He wondered how he ended up deserving such a woman in his life. All he knew was that he appreciated Natasha even more: for her love, her friendship, for not wanting him to be alone. "Thank you," he whispered, "thank you so much, Nat. For everything."

"Well, you said you wanted a friend," she said, smiling. "Figured I'd go above and beyond that and become your lover."

He laughed. It echoed across the field, spooking some birds. He stood up and stretched, enjoying the early warmth of the sun. The wind ruffled his hair, a sweet scent of field and mountain — the smell of nostalgia. The sky had turned to a pleasant azure, the clouds whitish silver against the sun's brilliant gold. He looked at Natasha, watching her watch him and he felt his ears turn red. "What?" he asked, running a hand through his bangs. God, his hair was long, the longest he ever had it. He never understood the guys that had long hair down to their backs or waist. Bucky's hair had grown to his shoulders, but it didn't look slovenly. At least his beard wasn't so thick.

Natasha got to her feet with cat like grace, walking the few steps towards him with the delicacy of a spider crawling along its web. She slipped her arms around his neck and smiled, hooding her eyes as she looked at him. His hands settled at her waist, feeling nature and right. He returned that lazy smile of hers with one of his own. "Just thinking," she said, swaying; he moved with her.

"About what?" his voice was soft, husky, and he pressed his forehead against hers. She giggled, a soft sound in the back of her throat.

"I want to hear the stories about Peggy and Bucky and your life before the ice," she said. She rested her head on his chest. His throat tightened, arms snaking around her back. "I don't want that part of your life to die, Steve, just because you're here now."

Will you tell me about your past one day then? "Okay," he said, the words thick and heavy on his tongue. "I'll tell you everything." Even if the memories hurt.

"Thank you," she said and lifted her head, kissing his cheek. She pulled away and stared into his eyes.

He never noticed before but her green eyes had flecks of pale blue. It only made her eyes greener, like the sea. He leaned closer, eyes closing as he went in for a kiss.

"Hey, you two lovebirds gonna stay out there all day?" Clint called. He jumped away from Natasha as if she burned him, cheeks and ears pink. "Laura has breakfast. Made enough to feed an army."

"What kind of pancakes?" Natasha asked, slipping away from him with feline grace and walking towards Clint.

"Blueberry and chocolate chip," he said, flashing her a smile. "Laura knows what everyone likes."

He heard her chuckle, his heart lightening at the sound as he scuffed his toe against the ground, following her. He stopped when he felt a hand on his arm; it was Clint. The wind stilled, the coming autumn cold pricking his skin. He waited for Clint to say something, hoping the man wouldn't be too upset about what happened last night. "I'm sorry," he said, "about scaring you and your wife. Didn't mean to scare Cooper too."

"Just want to make sure you're okay, Steve. I know what happened with the Accords is… rough and—"

"I'm fine," he said, patting Clint's shoulder. "I'm fine. Better than fine, I'm good." He smiled, knowing it was the truth. "I just… I had to remember why I do this, is all. Why I continue to do the right thing, when it's not always the obvious choice."

"Okay, and if you need to talk. I'll lend an ear."

He watched Natasha, she had stopped, picking some late season wild flowers. She brought them to her nose, sniffing them as she watched the sky. Geese honked, their v-shaped formation heading south, summer was ending, and autumn was approaching; the world held its breath, anticipating the first breath of frost that heralds the first approach of winter. Nature was gathering itself, preparing to wait for everything to die. He smiled. "Thanks, but I already have someone."

* * *

 **Originally this was titled All I Need, but I got the new Disturbed album today and "Hold on to Memories" just fit the emotional theme helluva lot better than All I Need. Plus, I got some shit reviews about how Steve suddenly stopped pining over Peggy and Nat never was bothered by it. So, I edited it where they talk about Peggy and why I never made a huge issue out of it from Nat's end.**

 **For those that are reading this chapter for the first time: the rest of the story gets angsty and it may seem that I'm just writing angst for the sake of angst. That is not the case. Some may even say it'll be better as different stories, I tried that and it doesn't feel right because everything is connected. Breaking it up into two stories will ruin my vision. Bucky and Nat will have a conclusion towards the end of the story. Steve and Natasha are a couple, they are together, everything I do from here on out will not break them apart even though it may seem like I'm throwing in roadblocks. But I firmly believe that by the time Infinity War happens, Steve knows about Natasha's past. This is how I see it happening. If you don't like how I've written the story so far you can leave, if you don't like how I plan to write it, you can leave. If you decide to trust me to deliver a good story then stick around, because I promise you: I know what I'm doing. I do have a plan. I've written stories before and finished them.**

 **Save an author; leave a review**


	19. Living End

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _Truth in your eyes, see through my heart — it's open! Make me believe, gives life to path of chosen. It's the song that's forever in the flame within, the living end. There's no need to surrender, I will sing with it, the living end. — Tarja_

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Natasha took a deep breath upon stepping inside the house, luxuriating in the warmth and smells of cooking pancakes, sizzling bacon and sausages and fresh fruit. Toys littered had yet to litter the floor since the children weren't up yet, still she walked with care in case a stray Lego should catch her unaware. She smiled at a few of the photos she was in that hung up on the wall, her heart grew warmer when Steve stopped to stare at some of them, a pensive expression on his face. He touched one, tracing whatever he saw there, she wondered if he longed for a day when he could settle down with a wife and children of his own, (she hoped that she could be that wife, even if she could never have children). Laura was manning the stove, flipping the pancakes and meat; she looked over her shoulder, smiling at them. "Morning."

"Morning," Steve greeted. She gave a small nod, holding Steve's fingers. "Can I help with anything?"

Laura gave a dismissive snort. "Nah. Sit, I'll get a plate ready." Steve looked at her and she nodded, heading towards the kitchen counter with lined with stools. Laura placed a plate before him, piled high with bacon, sausages and pancakes. A tab of butter was melting as it swam in a pool of syrup on top of the fluffy pancakes. Laura put another plate in front of her, with less food. "Eat, kids'll be up soon." She went back to cooking, whistling a song from one of the Disney movies.

Natasha smiled, eyes twinkling as she glanced at Steve. "They'll give you a run for your money in the food consuming department," she teased him. "Hope you're reading for a food eating contest."

"You do realize I have a metabolism that is four times faster than an average person, right?" He bit a piece of bacon with a satisfying crunch. He took another bite; she watched as his lips pressed around the bacon, his tongue dart out just a tad to catch stray crumbs and her mind steered itself into the gutter, imaging what his lips and tongue could do to her — suck and tease her breasts, his head between her legs as his hungry mouth —

"Steve, milk or juice?" Clint asked, his voice broke her train of thought, her cheeks had a pink tint to them and she hoped nobody noticed. He held up a gallon of milk and a gallon of orange juice. "We got grape and cranberry too, if you don't like orange juice."

"Milk's fine," he said. Clint gave a not, pouring a glass of milk and giving it to Steve. He put a splash of milk in a cup of coffee and gave it to her. She smiled, as she took it from his hand. It was a French roast, designed for a French press and it smelled rich and aromatic. It reminded her of Paris and the cafés, people chatting and eating pastries as they sat in wrought iron chairs. The lazy Sunday mornings at the facility, when it was only her and Steve awake, sitting at the table and drinking a cup of coffee together in companionable silence, before they headed to the cafeteria to grab breakfast.

"Thanks." She took a swallow, enjoying the bitter taste of the coffee and the sweet creamy aftertaste of the milk (Clint always bought whole milk, though since they lived so far away from an actual grocery store, the milk came from a little old lady named Daisy, who owned a couple of cows and sold milk at $2.50 per gallon). She began to eat her food. The bacon wasn't too soft nor too crispy, there was a nice caramelized crust on the sausages and the pancakes tasted like buttery blueberries, no annoying bite of baking soda. "Delicious Laura," she said.

"This is really good," Steve agreed, shoveling food into his mouth. She smiled at him, glad to see him happy. Clint sat down next to him, eating a bagel with a few strips of bacon on his plate. They settled into a comfortable silence while Laura continued to cook. It was soothing, sitting here with her closest friends and the man she loved. She took Steve's hand, squeezing it and smiling at him when he looked at her. She could picture a life like this, in the quiet countryside: Steve would cook since she was hopeless in the kitchen and they'd have a child, they'd find a way around her infertility issue and have a child, a family and they'd live in peace. Retire from hero work and raise their child; the child would know nothing but love and protection — no poverty, no sick and frail body, no cold winter nights with an empty belly along with a threadbare blanket for comfort, official looking men to take the child from the only home he or she had ever known, a woman with ice cold eyes demanding perfection until toes and fingers bled.

A loud squeal jerked Natasha from her thoughts, tiny feet thundered down the steps. Cooper and Lila screeched as they entered the kitchen, darting behind Laura in their play. "Auntie Nat! Auntie Nat!" they chimed as they stopped in front of her for quick hugs. Hugs exchanged the two children squealed — Steve flinched at the volume, hands covering his ears — and bolted into the living room. The tv turned on, she heard familiar music, " _SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS!_ " Cooper and Lila shouted. Steve looked at her, flummoxed.

"What's SpongeBob SquarePants?" he asked, in a hushed conspiratorial tone. Cooper and Lila bellowed the titular character's name again.

"A demented talking sponge that lives in a pineapple under the sea," Clint said, getting up, "I don't like them watching trash." He stalked over to the living room to cajole his two older children into watching something less mind rotting.

"It's a cartoon," she said, patting his shoulder. "Pretty funny, I like Plankton, even though he always fails." She took another sip of coffee. "Clint hates it. Says it's a horrible show that rots your brain—"

"It is!" Clint shouted from the living room. "They even did a study that proves you get stupider watching it!"

"You never showed me this supposed study. No study, no proof," she called back. "We can watching together later if you want."

"Nah." He shook his head. "Kinda too old for kid shows, dontcha think?" he grinned.

"You're never too old to laugh at someone else's blatant stupidity," she said, taking his hand. The theme music changed to something more upbeat, there was a car horn and a snare drum. "Clint must've convinced them to change it," she said as Laura walked into the living room with two plates; the whining began as soon as Lila and Cooper saw their breakfast.

"Aww, how come we don't get syrup Mommy?" Cooper asked.

"Cause I don't want sticky fingers all over the place, there's enough butter on it anyway. Now, if you want to sit at the counter and eat you can."

Natasha chuckled when she heard the resounding no to that suggestion. Watching tv while they eat breakfast was more important than syrup anyway. "Are they always like this?" Steve asked as Clint came over.

"No, it's Saturday and their Auntie Nat is here." He looked Steve up and down. "You're ready to be Uncle Steve?"

She watched as Steve choked on his milk, eyes going wide, a look of horror affixed itself to his face. The last time they visited Clint's family was during the Ultron Crisis and she remembered Steve helping around the house (mostly outside) and avoiding direct involvement with Lila and Cooper. In fact, she never seen him interact with children, she wasn't sure if he visited children's hospitals or did anything with children. Tony did, she did, Clint did, Sam and Wanda did. Bruce didn't for obvious reasons, Thor wasn't around much so she wouldn't know. But she couldn't recall if Steve ever did any functions involving children. She knew they asked for him, one older girl even went so far to ask if she and Steve were going to get married (how that idea got into her head, Natasha had no idea). "I uh… well, erm…" he flushed.

"You not like kids or something? You did do Avengers' Day at the hospital right?" Clint asked, his nose wrinkling in bewildered surprise at Steve's reaction.

"Yeah, didn't stay long, took a couple of pictures with a couple of kids. Then I had something to do, so I had to leave early," he said, snapping his last strip of bacon in half and eating it. "I don't mind kids."

"But?" Clint prompted.

"Nothing," Steve said, "I don't mind them. It's fine. I'm just… uh… it's been a rough couple of months. Nothing to worry about."

She rolled her eyes. "You're a terrible liar," she said, a smirk on her face. "It's okay if you hate the little snot nose brats—"

"Hey, those are my kids!" Clint said. "And Nat needs to teach you how to lie better." He directed that statement at Steve.

"Oh, you know I love them," she said, smiling at him. "Believe me Clint, I've tried. Golden Generation morals are hard to crack. Anyway, Clint's not going to hate you if you don't like his kids." She shrugged. "What he will do is make you sleep out in the jet, so" — she reached over and swapped a strip of bacon from his plate — "I suggest you learn to get along with kids right quick."

Both men rolled their eyes at that. "I like kids just fine," he said and got off the stool. "I'll go prove it." He finished off his breakfast and went over to the couch where Lila and Cooper sat. She followed to the archway, watching Steve sit down next to the Barton kids. They exchanged greetings and for a while all was quiet it.

"Where's your shield?" Cooper asked. "Did you lose it? Did it get broken? Can your shield get broken? Can a lightsaber cut it?"

"Do you like Auntie Nat?" Lila asked. "Are you gonna marry her? Can I call you Uncle Stevie? Oh, if you're gonna marry Auntie Nat can I be your flower girl? I wanna dress up like a princess and wear a flower crown? Please, please, please?"

"Did you punch Loki? Dad said you punched Loki… or was that Thor? Is Thor here? He promised me I can try lifting Mjölnir when he came back to visit."

"Do you wanna have a tea party with me later? You can be a prince! You look like a prince."

She laughed, leaning against Clint. She wrapped her arms around herself when Steve gave them a helpless look, his eyes begging them to pull him out of this. _Help me_ , he mouthed.

"Nah-uh, you're on your own with this," Clint said, he left patting her on the back. She watched Laura point to the stairs and told her husband to go get Nathanial. Clint sighed, going to get the baby. She turned her attention back to Steve: Cooper and Lila tugged on his arms, both wanting him to play with them and answer their questions. He looked so out of his depth, she took pity on him; coming to his rescue.

"Lila," she said, picking up the little girl and setting her on her lap. "Hush. Uncle Steve will play with you later, alright?"

Lila nodded, a little smile on her lips as she leaned closer, cupping her hands around her ear and whispered, "do you like Uncle Steve, Auntie Nat?"

She blushed. "Why yes," she said, twisting Lila around so she can fix the girl's hair. "I like him a lot."

"Do you like him the way Mommy likes Daddy?" Lila asked. She flushed, glancing at Steve, who was staring at her, waiting for her answer. He shushed Cooper, when the boy tugged on his arm.

"Yes," she said, "now hold still otherwise I can't get these snarls out."

"Are you going to marry Uncle Steve?" Lila twisted about to see her better. "Well?" Lila asked. She swallowed, glancing at Steve. His ears were red; he was explaining to Cooper about how he lost his shield in a battle and had to leave it behind, but not to worry because as soon as he gets home Iron Man would give it back to him; Iron Man rescued Captain America's shield and was keeping it safe for him. She smiled, surprised at how well Steve lied. I guess even Captain America can lie when the situation calls for it. "Auntie Nat?"

"I don't know," she said, her voice soft, "he hasn't asked me yet, so I don't know if we'll get married or if he wants to get married to me."

"But you like him the way Mommy likes Daddy, so you hafta get married!"

Child logic always amazed her, and sometimes she wished life could be so simple. Peanut butter and jelly was the best, you turned into an angel or ghost after you die, babies came from watermelon seeds, if you loved someone the way Mommy and Daddy do than of course you're gonna get married, Santa was real and was best friends with the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, the Avengers fought all the scary monsters — especially the ones that caused bad dreams and lived in nightmares; everything made sense to a child. She wished Cooper and Lila could stay young and innocent forever, never knowing how cruel and hateful the world was. "Shush, baby girl," she said, smoothing Lila's hair, "go get your brush and hair ties and I'll make your hair look like that of a prima ballerina, okay? You like that?"

"What's a prima ballerina?" Lila asked. She smiled and tweaked the girl's nose.

"She's the first ballerina, she gets all the lead parts in the ballet. Kinda like a ballerina princess." She caught that glimmer of excitement in Lila's eyes at the mention of princess. "You want to be a ballerina princess?"

"Yes!" Lila squealed, Steve flinched at the volume, the little girl ignored his scowl and bolted off to get her hair ties and hair brush.

"Bring bobby pins too, Lila!" she called as the girl ran to the stairs. She smiled at Steve, who was trying not to stare at her while paying attention to Cooper. "What?" she asked at his expression.

"Nothing, I just never—"

" _C'mon_ , Uncle Steve!" Cooper tugged at his hand. "I wanna show you my Hot Wheels collection and the track I have! It's really cool! You can launch them at each other! C'mon!"

"Just think of this as Parenting 101, only without the responsibilities that come with child rearing," she said, watching Cooper tug at Steve. The boy was determined to haul Captain America to his feet, regardless of the fact that Steve was a solid brick of muscle clocking in at two hundred and forty pounds. Steve wouldn't budge from a spot unless he wanted to or someone like the Hulk, Thor or Iron moved him physically. She patted Steve's shoulder. "Go get 'em Uncle Stevie."

"Don't call me that," he said, getting to his feet. "Whoa there, Cooper." He caught the boy before he fell and hit his head on the corner of the table. "Don't want ya to knock your head now. C'mon, show me your Hot Wheels." He followed an excited Cooper to another room. She shook her head, smiling as Steve left.

"Auntie Nat!" Lila said, holding a box filled with hair supplies. "I got everything! You can make me a real princess ballerina!"

"Kneel down and hold still," she said, and Lila did as she was told. She brushed the girl's hair, working some coconut oil onto her hands to smooth Lila's hair. She hummed as she worked. "Tell me if I pull to hard. A ballerina's hair must be nice at tight."

"Okay, Auntie Nat, you aren't though."

She enjoyed doing this, explaining about ballet and the life of a ballerina to Lila as she worked. This was the closest she'll ever get to being a mother, to having a daughter and it pained her. Children had never been a tangible aspect of her future, the Red Room made sure of that. The first time she met Clint's children, Lila had been a baby. She watched Lila grow up, bought her Christmas and birthday presents (Russian nesting dolls, Barbies, stuffed animals), helped her with her hair when she visited, answered her questions and played with her when she asked. She enjoyed it, Lila adored her, and Laura was thankful with the help. "Hold still Lila," she said as she tucked and teased Lila's hair into a petal design. "You're going to look beautiful once I'm done."

"Can you put make-up on me?" she asked. Natasha frowned, unsure if Laura would allow that. "Please?"

"Only if your mama says it's okay," she said, remembering the cold Russian winters of her youth in Volgograd. Wearing he grandmother's shoes, pearls and fighter pilot jacket — Regiment 588th emblazon on a sleeve — pretending to be flying a plane and shooting down Nazis; letting her grandmother put eyeshadow on her eye lids, rouge on her lips and blush on her cheeks, standing on her grandmother's toes and pretending to dance and listening to her voice tell stories of Baba Yaga or to stories about the war and how the Nazis called her grandmother and her friends _Nacht Hexen_. Then her parents died, and her grandmother struggled as the economy floundered and the Soviet Union began to crumble, the KGB coming and dragging her away from her dying grandmother, how she screamed and cried — _Babushka! Babushka!_ — and her first night in the Red Room was cold and dark. The small girl known as Natalia spun a chrysalis of blood and death, emerging from it as the woman known as Black Widow, gone was the innocent girl that laughed and wanted to be a ballerina and meet the handsome soldier known as Captain America.

"Auntie Nat?" Lila asked, drawing Natasha from her thoughts. "You done? Can I go ask Mommy?"

"Oh, um…" she picked up a bobby pin and stuck it into her hair to hold a loose part in place. "Yes, you can go now." Lila squealed and ran off to show her mother and father her hair. She looked up to see Steve standing there, hands holding his belt buckle. "Hey."

"You okay? You seemed kinda lost in thought," he said, sitting on the couch. He picked up a sparkly hair clip with a butterfly on it. He poked the wings, eyes widening as the butterfly's wings bobbed.

"There's springs," she said, pointing to the delicate silver springs, "so when Lila runs the wings bob."

"Huh." He set it down. "You're good with her. She likes you; noticed it last time — during the Ultron Crisis — it was sweet." He licked his lips. She smiled, patting his hand.

"Thanks. It's not much, but… I like being Auntie Nat." She picked up the unused hair supplies, putting them back in the box.

"I'm sorry," he said, "if there was… something I could do, I would. But—"

"It's okay, I've made my peace with it," she said, smiling at him but it didn't reach her eyes. The lie came easy to her; she had said it so many times. She almost believed it, believed that not being a mother was okay, that motherhood didn't define her. It was okay if she didn't have children. For a long time, it never bothered her, it didn't bother her when she told Bruce, didn't bother her with Bucky, didn't bother her when she was married to Alexi. Now it bothered her, because she was with Steve and she wanted to give him _everything_ , and yet she was unable to give him that one things — children.

"You can be honest with me," he said.

"I am," she said, even though she felt like black oil covered her skin. She hated lying to him, but they — having a family was counterproductive to their moment in life. Living on the run from the governments of the world was not the ideal conditions to be raising a child in, plus Vision had said the Mind Stone was warning him about a threat and there was no telling about what the future had instore. She was glad for the fact that the Red Room sterilized her. "I am, Steve," she said again, unnerved by the look he gave her. He sighed, nodding and didn't press her.

"Auntie Nat!" Lila came running back over, grinning. "Oh, hi Uncle Steve."

"Wow, you look just like a princess," he said, smiling. "Did Natasha do your hair all pretty?" he asked as the girl spun around.

"Uh-huh." She held a small jar in her hand. "Auntie Nat, Mommy said you can put this on my cheeks." She handed the facial glitter. She took the jar and opened it, dabbing her finger in the cool gooey gel.

"Big smile and close your eyes," she said, and Lila did as instructed. She applied the glitter, making sure to put a star glitter at the corner of Lila's eye. "There all done, don't rub your eyes for a little bit until it sets."

"Am I pretty, Uncle Steve?" She asked, a cute blush on her cheeks. He nodded. "Can we dance? I'm a ballerina princess and you're a prince!"

"Oh well, uhm…" he flushed, ears turning pink. "I don't know how to dance."

"But… _all princes_ know how to dance," Lila said as if that was self-evident.

"I'm not much of a prince, Lila, I'm more of a soldier," Steve explained, though it did nothing to quell Lila's insisting he was a prince. Clint came over with Nathanial, who was two and in a clingy phase.

"Do you wanna dance with Daddy?" Clint asked, knowing that look Lila got when she wanted to play prince and princess. Lila shook her head. "Aw, c'mon, Daddy's a great dance!"

"But Uncle Steve's a prince!"

"And you're a princess, so that makes Daddy a king which is better than a prince," he said with a wink. "So there!"

"Why don't you dance one round with your daddy, so Uncle Steve can watch and then dance the next round with Uncle Steve?" Natasha sad, thinking it was a suitable compromise to the problem.

"But I really wanna dance with Uncle Steve!" Lila said. "Please!" she looked at Steve. He looked helpless, hoping she or Clint would swoop in and rescue him. Neither did, so he sighed and stood up. "Yay!" She trotted over to him when he went to a clear spot in the living room. She put her feet on his toes and he held her. Steve began to move, trying to dance but it was more of a shuffle with a few butt wiggles through in for effect. "You're supposed to hum something or sing, Daddy sings."

"I'm not good at this," he mumbled, face going red. Natasha grinned, knowing that his blush went all the way down to his chest when he was embarrassed like this. He began to hum a jazz tune. Lila didn't appreciate classic American music though and she hopped off Steve's feet, hands on her hips.

"You're not doing it _right_ , Uncle Steve!" she said, looking over at her father. "Daddy!" she whined and went over to him. "Can you dance with me? Uncle Steve doesn't do it right."

"Uncle Steve needs to hold Nate then?" Clint said, offering up the toddler. Steve paled at that, his eyes widening.

"Oh, no. I can't hold a b-baby!" he said, waving his hands in denial. "I could crush him or squeeze him to hard and… I just… I can't hold him."

"He's two Steve, he's a bit hardier than a newborn. C'mon, it'll be fine. I trust you." Clint held Nathanial out to Steve, but he shook his head. She rolled her eyes and stood up, going over to Steve and taking his hand. "Or you can dance with Nat," Clint mumbled.

"I'm going to teach you to dance," she said, putting his hand on her hip and taking his other, she placed her hand on his shoulder. "Okay?"

"O-Okay," he said, eyes a bit wide. Lila squealed in delight, telling Clint how awesome this was to watch Auntie Nat dance. She flushed, shaking her head to clear thoughts and hummed a simple waltz. "One two three… One two three… One two three…" she said as she moved with Steve, she winced when he stepped on her foot.

"Sorry!"

"Steve, relax and let me lead," she said, resuming the count so he understood the rhythm. He stepped on her foot again, she shot him a glare. "Relax and let me lead."

"Sorry, not good at this," he said, looking bashful, his gaze fixed on his feet. He stepped on her toes again. "Sorry, didn't… didn't mean to."

"Steve." She stopped, looking at him. "Don't look at your feet, don't think about it. Dancing is about feeling and moving. Kinda like fighting. You mess up when you start thinking in a middle of a fight."

"Dancing and fighting are not the same thing, though," he protested. She shook her head and tried to let go of him, but he tightened his grip. "Please," he said, voice soft, "teach me so I can" — he swallowed — "dance with…" he stopped, gazing daring away and he chewed his lip as if he wanted to say something else but he said, "Lila."

She looked at the little girl, who was whispering something to Clint. Her former partner grinned, nodding and said something back in a hushed voice. Whatever it was Lila found it funny for she covered her hands and giggled. She sighed. "Alright," she said, "but _let me lead_."

"Deal." He nodded, she began to hum the waltz again. This time he let her lead, a half smile on his lips as the twirled about the living room. At some point she gave the lead over to him. She fell into his warm blue eyes, the windows of his soul and she saw all the love and devotion he had for her, pure scintillating light, the darkness of his past not gone just morphed into scars that he can understand and accept. She helped him heal his soul and that was something powerful; an unbreakable connection. Her breath hitched, she didn't realize they had stopped dancing or that he held her against his broad warm frame. His lips brushed hers in a tentative kiss and she returned it, parting her lips on instinct to allow him to deepen it.

"Aw! She's your princess Uncle Steve!" Lila gasped, she squealed with delight as she jumped up and down on the couch. "You're gonna marry her and live in a castle! Right, Daddy, right?"

Lila's voice broke the magical spell, snapping her back to reality and she stared at Steve. She had pulled away so fast that his lips were still puckered up, wanting to continue the kiss. It took him a moment to realize what was going on, but he caught on and licked his lips. "So, Lila," he said, looking at the little girl. "Do you think you wanna try dancing with me again?" he asked.

"But Auntie Nat—"

"Auntie Nat is going to see if your mommy needs help," she said. She smiled at Lila and patted Steve on the shoulder before heading towards the stairs.

"She's outside," Clint said, she nodded her thanks and left the house. She didn't go looking for Laura, she knew Laura was in the basement doing laundry and mending. Instead, she went to the tree near the house, sitting on the swing and letting the afternoon wind ruffle her hair.

* * *

 **Lila's smart.**

 **No, Nat's not falling out of love with Steve. It's more like she realizing that she wants that domestic life with Steve and doesn't know how to deal with it. Plus, she's a private person. PDA for a mission is find, but PDA (even around people she knows) is no. And remember this is a young love. Both she and Steve need to get comfortable with the fact that they are together and in love, cause they've been dancing around it for so long.**

 **Just trust me. I know what I'm doing, I went to school for this.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **I love you silent readers! Please show me you're alive T_T**

 **Also, I loosely base Nat's childhood off of what I've kinda figured out about it from comics canon (by reading other people's fics :P), what the MCU has presented and my own headcanons. The 588th was an all female bomber regiment during WWII and the Nazis did call them Nacht Hexen or Night Witches. "Night Witches" (German: _Nachthexen_ ; Russian: Ночные ведьмы, _Nochnye Vedmy_ ) was a World War II German nickname for the female military aviators of the 588th Night Bomber Regiment, known later as the 46th "Taman" Guards Night Bomber Aviation Regiment, of the Soviet Air Forces. Though women were initially barred from combat, Soviet Premier Joseph Stalin issued an order on October 8, 1941 to deploy three women's air force units, including the 588th regiment. The regiment, formed by Major Marina Raskova and led by Major Yevdokia Bershanskaya, was made up primarily of female volunteers in their late teens and early twenties**


	20. The Storm (Lost at Sea)

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

 ** _solnishko - little sun_**

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 _My beautiful liar, you are drowning in your fear. You're cutting into me; you think if I bleed it can save you. Why… so tell me_ _—_ _So tell me how did you lose yourself at sea? Drifting within this_ _—_ _so tell me why, did you cast yourself away? It's such a sweet addiction, you should celebrate._ _—_ _In This Moment_

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His touch was gentle, petal soft and his smiled made her heart flutter; it always reached his brown eyes, warm like melted chocolate. Cupping the back of her head, he pulled her close as he gave her a kiss. It was warm in their bed, the blizzard howled outside, billowing snowdrifts and icy flakes but that was outside. She was with him inside, snuggled beneath the covers the scents of sex, her shampoo and his cologne mingled together. He tucked a strain of copper hair behind her ear, smiling with loving devotion in his eyes. "You're my ray of light, Natalia, _moy solnishko_."

She grinned, running her fingers through his soft brown hair. She pressed her face against his cheek, feeling the one day's worth of stubble scratch her nose. She pressed a kiss there and worked her way down to the crook of his neck, drinking in the scent of his cologne and sweat. It was heady and intoxicating, making her loins ache for his touch. He groaned, she felt the sound against her lips and grinned; it always gave her a little thrill to know she could control him in such a fashion. He was always so strong, so self-assured, yet in bed she was the one with all the power. The fact he surrendered to her in such a fashion was sweet. "Natalia," he breathed, voice rough and husky.

"I want you, Alexi," she said, slipping a leg over his waist. "I want you so much." She kissed him, nipping his lip until he let out a soft whimper. The windows shuddered in their panes, the wind whistled beneath the door and the heater had given out long ago — communism at its finest. It didn't matter if their house was cold or that the fire had coughed and sputtered itself into death; beneath the blankets they were warm, and she had no intention of leaving the heavy quilts and down comforter any time soon. By the rigidness of Alexi's cock poking her, she didn't think he had any plans to get up either. She wiggled, sighing when she felt the head of his cock slip into her warm wet folds.

"Fuck, Natalia," he growled, looking at her with warm lust addled eyes. She smirked, sinking down on him and rocking her hips once she had him fully sheathed. He growled, thrusting his hips up, meeting her fast pace with vigor. Her whimpers and mews grew louder and louder, countering his grunts and groans as he continued to drive himself into her. She had pinned his hands above his head, dominating him, a half-smirk on her lips as she watched his cheek flush, mouth agape as he panted. She loved watching him come undone, loved driving him over the edge. He was close, she could tell by the look in his eyes.

"Promise me," she said as she rolled her hips, "promise me Alexi that you'll never leave me. Say it… say it!" Her own climax was nearing, but she had experience in holding it at bay, the Red Room made sure of that. The Red Room trained her to kill, to wear ten thousand different masks, and to master the arts of pleasure and sex. She was the perfect femme fatal — Black Widow. "Say it!" she gasped. She wanted him to promise her he'll never leave her, the one bright spot in this black world of blood and pain.

He whined. "I promise… I promise — _fuck_ " — he came, his hot seed spilling into her — "Natalia, I promise."

She grinned, gasping a moment later as she let herself go, the shudders of her orgasm rippling along her nerve endings. She lifted herself off him and laid herself on his chest, running her hand through the damp curls that stuck to his pecs. He pressed a lazy kiss to her forehead and smoothed her hair. "Thank you," she said, smiling as she looked up at him.

Alexi smiled, that sweet smile of his. She didn't know why the KGB had paired them together. At first, she thought it was because they wanted to breed a line of super spies from her, but they should have known she was sterilized. Regardless of why they forced her to marry Alexi, she was glad they did. It was the first time since she was taken from her grandmother that she felt like she had a place to call home. "I'll never leave you, Natalia," he said. His fingers ran down her spine and she shuddered. "I promise." He cupped her face and gave he another languid kiss. "I love you."

"Love's for fools," she said, though the confession warmed her. "Toldja that before."

He laughed, it was such a rich, warm sound and if she could make him laugh for a hundred years then she'll die a happy woman. "Then I guess I'm a fool" — another kiss — "a fool for you."

Yes. Yes, you are Alexi Shostakov, yes you are. "The only type of fool I'll accept," she purred. Two human shaped shadows fell over them. She glanced up, pressing a finger to his lips and watched as the two men walked pass their window and out of sight. She rolled off him, slender hand slipping beneath her pillow to grab the small gun she kept there. Two booming knocks sounded.

"Alexi Shostakov!" a man's voice shouted. "Alexi Shostakov!" The man pounded on the door, the booms echoed like thunder in their cold house. Her fingers curled around the gun and she brought the blankets up to cover herself with the other, she glanced at Alexi.

"It's a blizzard outside," he said, she gave a little laugh.

"We're Russians, a little snow doesn't bother us," she said. He laughed, glancing out the window at the still raging blizzard.

"Comrade Shostakov!" the man bellowed again, followed by more booming knocks. Alexi grumbled, reaching over the bed for his pants. He hiked them up and pulled on his sweater. She watched him leave their room, heard him answer the door and the roaring wind outside. It died to a moaning whine a few seconds later. She slipped from bed, gun still in hand, and the blanket covering her. On cat silent feet she made her way to the door, peeking out at the two men that wanted Alexi.

They wore thick fur line coats that fell to mid shin, buttoned closed with buttons of brass. Black fur ushanka on their heads, the red and gold star of Mother Russia emblazon on the fronts. Thick gloves covered their fingers and shiny black boots. Upon their shoulders was a red rocker with gold stitching declaring the unit they worked for and below that the crest of the KGB. She swallowed, furrowing her brow and wondering why two KGB agents had come to her and Alexi's house. Her handler had given her leave for two weeks and Alexi had a few days of liberty to spend with her. Why would the KGB need either of them?

She leaned a little further, unable to get a good look at either of the men. Alexi caught her eye and he jutted his chin. She huffed, wrapping the blanket around her and headed back to bed. She popped the cartridge of the revolver open, counting the rounds and with a flick of her wrist, snapped it back into place. She spun it, listening to the snapping sound it made as it revolved. Alexi's voice drifted to her, along with the two KGB agents', though she couldn't hear what they said. After a few minutes the two men left — the wind howled when Alexi opened the door — and Alexi came back to bed, a disappoint frown on his handsome face. "Alexi?" she asked, getting to her feet, the blanket falling away. Goosebumps prickled her skin the cold, she wormed her way into Alexi's embrace, sighing at the warmth. He nuzzled his nose in her hair.

"I'm sorry _s_ _olnishko_ ," he said, swaying to unheard music. "I have to go, they want me to test a new airplane."

"Did you tell them no?" she asked, ear pressed to his chest; the sound of his heartbeat soothing. She shuddered as he ran a hand up and down her back; they really should restart the fire.

"You know how the KGB is," he said, a sad frustrated note in his voice. "They're waiting, I have to get dressed and go."

"I don't want you to go," she murmured, pressing herself closer to him and cupping his groin. He gave a soft groan, looking at her. She squeezed him, smirking as he groaned louder. "Don't leave me Alexi."

"I… I have to _solnishko_ ," he said, "you know how it is." He didn't let her go and she wasn't about to unwrap her arms from around his torso either. They stood like this, listening to the wind moan outside, the snow drifts spinning around and the windows rattling in the panes. Alexi let go first, pulling away from her to finished dressing. She stood there, arms folded beneath her naked breasts, not bothering to put her clothes on. He came over to her, ushanka on his head, thick coat buttoned to the chin. He didn't have his gloves on though. "Help me? You know I'm hopeless with these."

She snorted, taking the gloves and holding them open as he jammed his hands into them. He gave her a cheeky grin and kissed her again. She caught the collar of his coat, the pins that declared his rank and position cold beneath her fingertips. "You come back to me, understand?"

"I did promise," he said, laughter in his eyes.

"Promises mean nothing Alexi, you come back to me." She held his gaze, until the mirth faded from his eyes. He stroked her cheek, the leather soft against her skin.

"I'll come back _solnishko_ ," he said. She let him go and he smiled once more before leaving. She watched him walk pass their bedroom window, tying the ear-flaps of the ushanka beneath his chin. Dogs barked, someone gave a command, and Alexi was gone leaving her alone in the cold empty house.

She was in Moscow, a few weeks later, walking up the stairs to the third story apartment in the city, a bag of groceries in her hand. The apartment building was a run-down place, peeling olive green wall paper that reminded her of shit after eating too many fibrous vegetables. Someone was wailing down the hall, a tv was one and children screeched in delight. The walls were thin enough that she could hear the city beyond, cars honking and an airplane flying overhead. Another building built during communism, another building that is falling apart because nobody gave a damn to build it properly because they all got the same shitty handful of rubles at the end of the day. She jammed her key into the lock, the door gave squeaking on unoiled hinges. She pulled her key out and went in the rest of the way.

Her apartment was dark, the kitchen window the sole source of grey light. Snowflakes, big and fat, drifted down in lazy slowness. She closed the door and dropped her keys into the bowl by the door. She drew her pistol, stepping further into the quiet boxy apartment. "I was wondering when you'd show up Black Widow," a gruff voice asked, it reminded her of rocks in a blender. She could smell cigarette smoke and saw the bright red-orange cherry a heartbeat later. "Put that thing away."

She holstered her pistol with a huff, though didn't come any closer. "What do you want, Ivan?" she asked. Her handler didn't answer; she walked to the kitchen, setting her groceries on the table. She made a cup of tea, waiting for him to say something. She stood in the light of the window, her living room dark and Ivan swathed in thick inky shadows. She took a sip of tea, waiting for her handler to say something. He gave a lusty sigh, the cloud of silvery smoke catching the weak sunlight.

"Shostakov is dead," he said. "Died two days ago, I'm sorry…" there was a pause as if Ivan was unsure if he should say something or not, "…Natalia."

"Oh." She kept her voice impassive, her emotions locked behind the façade of Black Widow. Something within the walls began to buzz, the clock on the windowsill ticked away the seconds, and she drank her tea calm and uncaring about the news of her husband's death. Ivan sighed, the couch squeaking as he got up and walked into the weak light. He was a man approaching his senior years, ungraceful as he left middle age. The skin on his cheeks sagged, his salt-and-pepper beard unkempt, eyes ringed with dark circles and wrinkles, his hair thinning. He held a stubby cigarette between his middle and index fingers of his left hand, in his other hand he held a manila folder. He dropped it on the table. She glanced it.

"New mission," he said, gesturing to the folder. "You leave tomorrow, I'll be by to pick you up."

"I'll be ready," she said, finishing her tea. Ivan gave her a tiny smile, as if he was trying to be comforting but forgot how to. He sucked on the cigarette, blowing smoke into her face and then stubbed it out on the ash tray she kept in the middle of the table. Smoke curled around the abandoned cigarette butt. He walked to the door, picked up his coat and walked out. She went over to the door and engaged the locks. The buzzing in the wall returned and she heard an unseen cat meow. She walked over to the table to look at the folder. A black widow spider stamped on the front of it, her name stamped on front of it along with the date.

The first cracks in her façade appeared, her lip trembled, her eyes stung; she felt her throat tightened, and it became hard to breathe. With a savage scream she pushed everything off the table. The carton of milk busted open, the eggs cracked, the ash tray shattered, the papers of her new assignment fluttered all over, it was a mess, but she didn't care. She slumped into a chair, folded her arms on the table and cried.

* * *

"Nat?" Clint asked, she looked up, the memories fading away. The swing creaked, some scrapped off bark drifted down. "Nat, you okay?" he asked again.

"Where's Nate?"

"Laura's got him. She's helping Steve with the kids or rather Steve's helping her, not sure which it is." Her friend shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked on the balls of his feet. He didn't say anything and neither did she. The wind rustled her hair and the leaves overhead. It was warm today, summer refusing to relinquish its hold. She liked it, the air smelled warm and sweet, with just a hint of the coming chill.

"Remember when you found me?" she asked, pushing herself on the swing, the grass was a mix of green and brown. She couldn't look at Clint, couldn't watching as his eyes darken as he remembered that mission. He was sent to kill her, for she had been killing too many important people, too many people that Shield valued. "You said my eyes looked dead."

"Yeah, I remember. You also came onto me in the hotel room after you agreed to come with me," he said, glancing up at the sky. She smiled at that. "Told you I was in a committed relationship."

"Still kissed you, still almost got you in bed with me," she said with a wink. He gave a snort. "A few months before that my handler came and told me my husband died."

"You were married?" he asked, surprised coloring his voice. She nodded, sucking on her lower lip. "For how long?"

"A few years, wasn't much of a marriage. Arranged by the KGB, my husband and I… we uh… didn't like each other much when we first met, but by the end… I guess we loved each other. At least he told me he loved me." She twisted her hand around the chain of the swing. "If you had killed me that day… I wouldn't have minded."

"Don't say that Nat," he said, "I made a call… _the right call_ , and you're here now. I mean, Steve's head over heels for you and… you like him, right?"

"Clint," she said, smiling. "I love him. I look at him and I see the entire world before me. He's… I love him." She gave a little bounce, watching as bark and loose leaves rained down. She giggled when Clint gave an unhappy expression. "It's just that—"

"I doubt Cap'll die the way your first husband did," he said, a teasing note in his voice. "Look, I'm sorry Lila pushed you two, kept saying how you two will get married and—"

"That's the thing Clint," she said, "for the first time I can _see_ something like that for myself with Steve. I see myself married and living in a nice house with a white picket fence, two cats and a dog and a child." She closed her eyes, her lip trembling as a few tears leaked out from her lids. "I see a child, a child I can't have."

"Does Steve know you're uh—"

"Yeah, he does, I told him the first time we uh…" she licked her lips and Clint nodded in understanding. "He sympathized and tried to empathized, but—"

"You want to give him that don't you," he said, stepping closer to her. She nodded. "You know, I'm sure you're uh… well, I'm sure you're not all broken down there. You two could do surrogacy. I'm pretty sure Laura would volunteer, you're practically family Nat, she'll help ya." Clint smiled. "Or you and Steve can adopt. There are plenty of kids that need good homes and who better than to have as parents than Captain America and Black Widow?"

She chuckled at that. "I hate visiting cause seeing your kids makes me want my own," she said.

"I don't know how that is possible, worse decision I ever made, wouldn't wish it on anyone." They laughed, looking up when Steve came wandering outside, he was holding Nate, and the little boy seemed content in his arms. Steve was talking to him, pointing to things as he did so. She smiled as she watched him. For all his initial awkwardness around the kids, once he settled in to the role of "Uncle Steve" he was good at it, and he seemed to light up. "He's good with kids," Clint muttered. "Bumbling and awkward at first, but you know him. Never backs down from a challenge."

"Wouldn't be Steve Rogers if he did."

"That's for damn sure," he said, "hey, Steve! We're over here!" Clint bit his lip and let out a sharp whistle. Steve looked over and grinned, Nate waved and pressed his face into Steve's neck, acting all bashful and shy as Steve walked over to them. "And you didn't want to hold him." Clint teased. "Laura threaten you with chores?"

"Hardy har-har," he said, rolling his eyes. "No, she just taught me how to function around kids." He bounced Nate, and the little boy giggled. "Said I was a natural."

"Oh really?" Clint arched a brow and held out his arms for his youngest son. Nate shook his head, preferring Steve. "That's cold, Nathanial. That's real cold." The toddler babbled something and whispered into Steve's eye. For his part, Steve's eyes widened, and he nodded, whispering back to the little boy. He winked at them. "I can't believe it," Clint said, "I can't believe that my own son prefers Captain America to me."

"Guess Laura has to file divorce papers," she said, smirking, "marry Steve. Don't worry, if you feel that bad, we can get married."

"Ah, no," Steve said, and despite Nate's protests handed him back to his father. He looped his strong arms around her waist and pulled her back, kissing her cheek. "You're mine," he growled, nipping her ear lobe. She purred, leaning against his strong chest.

"I am?" she asked, her voice soft and husky. Clint made a face and the baby babbled, realizing that his father's embrace was just as good as Steve's.

"Mmhmm." Steve's hands dropped lower, squeezing a hip. Nate squealed when his father's hand covered his face, chubby fingers tugging at Clint's in an effort to remove his hand.

"Get a room you two," he said, eyeing them both. "There are innocent virginal eyes around, don't need you two humping like rabbits behind my house."

"What if I wanna?" Steve asked, a wicked good smirk on his lips. She flushed, a bit surprised he was being so bold. When he was comfortable, his snarky side came out. He pulled her back more. "Gonna stop me?"

"Make you sleep out in the jet" — Clint leveled a glare at both of them — "both of ya."

Steve laughed, letting her go and she laughed as she swung. "Clint watch out!" she cried, and the archer side stepped to avoid her. She giggled, looking over her shoulder at Steve. She felt his hand on the small of her back, pushing her again. She never done this before. In Russia, the winters were too cold for her grandmother to take her to the park, the summers too short and her grandmother always had to work. When the KGB took her, she was didn't have time for swing sets and parks anymore. This was freeing; she felt like she was flying and could touch the sky.

She smiled when Lila came outside to join them, the sun catching the glitter on her cheeks. The girl squealed, running to her father, ducking to avoid Natasha's feet. Lila clung to her the belt loops of her father's pants. "Wow, you're really high Auntie Nat!"

"Yes, I am!" she said, gave a little shout of delight, her grin widening when she felt Steve's hand again on her back as he gave her another push. "I feel like I can fly!" she said. The sky was a bright blue today and she felt like she could see for miles at the apex of the swing. Her heart was light and excitement squirmed in her gut.

"Jump, Auntie Nat! Jump!" Lila encouraged. She swallowed, unsure if she should, Steve gave her another push and she wiggled forward a bit and jumped at the apex of the swing. The momentum of the swing sent her flying, the wind chill against her cheeks and whipped her hair about. A laugh born from excitement escaped her throat.

"Natasha!" Then she was falling, gravity tugging her back to earth. Instinct drove her, she pulled her arms towards her chest, hunching her shoulders up to protect her neck and angled her shoulder towards the ground. She'd fallen before, it wasn't that high, she knew she wouldn't get hurt. Arms wrapped around her the next instant, strong and protecting, pulling her to a board familiar chest, a hand on her head to keep her steady. "I gotcha," Steve said, they landed on the ground; he grunted at the impact, coiling his around her more.

He caught her, she jumped off a swing and caught her. "Idiot," she grumbled, hiding the fact that his concern was touching. "I was fine." She pushed, he let her go, she sprung to her feet and he flipped to his.

"Show off," Clint grumbled. Lila was giggling and clapping, running over to tug on Steve's hand.

"Me next! Me next! Me next!" she shouted, hopping up and down. Steve chuckled, as she ran to the swing and got on. She kicked her legs, leaning back — the swing creaked, moving a little. "Push me, Uncle Steve! Push me high, so I can jump, and you can catch me! I want you to catch me!"

"You're not jumping off the swing, young lady," Clint said, his voice stern. "Uncle Steve can push you, but you're not jumping off it either." He tuned his glare to Natasha. "And _you_ shouldn't've done it either!"

"Oh please, I can—"

"I know, but kids are impressionable." He tipped his head to Lila, who was still begging Steve to push her really high, so she could jump and have him catch her. "You're just lucky his first reaction is to protect." She snorted at his glare. "Now I have to go inside, I have a diaper to change and if you do anything reckless, I'm going to throw a dirty diaper at you."

"You wouldn't dare! That's a biological weapon!"

"Watch me," he said, only half teasing and went into the house to change Nate. Lila watched her father leave, decided that swinging wasn't so much fun anymore without a large audience and demanded to be put down. Steve obliged, and the little girl ran off. She chuckled as the little girl went into the house. The wind ruffled her hair, she pulled a few strands from her mouth, glancing over when Steve stopped at her side. He looked a bit awkward.

"Sorry," he said, "about catching you. I know you can take a fall and well I just—"

"Captain America instincts kicked in?" she teased, he laughed and gave a nod, kicking at a dirt clod. "It's okay."

"Bucky and I used to jump off the swings at the park. Well, Bucky did, I was too sick to do it. Could've broken a bone and then my mom would've been unhappy with me." He flashed her a smile. "So, Bucky did instead. I just pushed."

"Explains why you're so good" — she flushed — "at pushing, I mean."

"Oh, yeah, yeah," he said, nodding.

They stood there, listening to the wind and the instincts. A honeybee lighted on a flower, buzzed and then flew off to another flower, birds twittered in the tree and the wind rustled the leaves. A hawk cried somewhere, a long mournful note. She looked up, spotting a dark speck against the blue of the sky. Well, this is awkward, she thought as she glanced at Steve. He scratched at his cheek, not meeting her gaze. "You're good with the kids," she said. "Now that you aren't afraid of them."

"Oh, yeah, thanks," he said. "Mothers used to come up to me on the Bond Sales tour, handing me their screaming kids so they could get a picture."

"That must've been—"

"Uncomfortable, yeah." He worked a stone loose with his toe. "Entire thing was awkward. All the fame and attention. Wasn't used to it, didn't like it too much either. Always was the quiet kid —"

"Until someone said something that went against your morality?" she asked. He nodded.

"Yep. Then I'd say something, which usually led to a fight." He chuckled. "If we ever get a chance to go back to Brooklyn, I'll show you all the allyways where I got beat up. If they're still around."

She stepped closer to him, tilting her head up. She tossed her head to the side, dislodging her hair that was in her face. "Now why would I wanna do that?"

"Cause," he drawled, "those allyways were shaping me to be Captain America. The scrawny kid that never backed down from the find. History being made and all that, can't learn that in a museum."

"I never went to your exhibit at the Smithsonian."

"Really? I'm hurt now," he said, a cute little pout on his face. She laughed at that. "Why?"

"Why? I had you, I could ask you anything, any time I want. Why go to a museum when I knew you?"

"Would've done you better going to the exhibit, you wouldn't have gotten much outta me." He pulled out the compass he always carried with him and handed it to her. "Here."

"I don't want your compass. It's yours. I know how special it is."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not giving it to you. I want you to open it," he said. She arched a brow and opened the compass. Her picture stared back, she was smiling and there was a happy light in her eyes. "Put your picture in my compass," he said as she handed it back to him. "Peggy's behind it, but I figured she wouldn't mind sharing it with you." He gave her a shy half-smile.

"Thank you," she said, her voice soft. He snapped the compass close and slipped it back into his pocket. She watched him, studying his face and memorizing his features. Hell, she could envision him in her sleep. She closed her eyes, picturing that idyllic little life she was day dreaming about: the quaint little house in Brooklyn, because Steve wanted to raise his family in his old neighbourhood and she had nothing left in Russia worth sharing with a next generation; the yard was big enough for a dog and the two cats they had ruled the interior, and their child — no, a son, would chase the dog outside and play catch with Steve and there was a tatty Dodgers cap from when the team was still located in Brooklyn. Their boy looked like Steve, with reddish blond hair and bright blue eyes and a smile that lit up the room whenever he saw his parents. Steve scooping up their son, planting a big slobbery kiss to his cheek.

"Nat?" he asked, snapping her from her daydream. She looked at him, eyes wide. "Something wrong?"

Yes, I can't give you a son. "No," she said, the easy disarming appearing on her lips, simple and natural. "We better head in."

"Yeah," he agreed, falling in step as she lead him to the house.

* * *

The rest of the day passed in a blur. They had a light lunch — well, the rest of them had a light lunch, Steve ate like a horse, though assured Laura he would be ready for dinner when the time came. He didn't like and ate just has heartily at dinner time too. Laura had tsked and said something about going to the city soon to restock the fridge and pantry if they were going to be staying for the foreseeable future considering Steve ate enough for a family of three (at least) in one sitting.

She helped Laura clean the kitchen, while Steve and Clint watched the kids and help with homework. She smiled when Steve got upset with Cooper's math homework. "Why would they change math!" he had bellowed, "Math is math!" It had taken she had to go calm him down, explaining that new ways of thinking about stuff had come about in the seventy years (maybe eighty) years since he was last doing math homework. He still didn't look convince at the end of her explanation but had agreed to let it go and allow Clint to help his son. Clint later confessed to her that he agreed with Steve: changing math was stupid, math is math. All seven of them sat around the tv after homework and the dishes were done, to watch Frozen (Lila had picked the movie and her big thing was Frozen). She wasn't sure if Steve enjoyed it, but he didn't hate it. Bathes and showers followed, and when she saw him again in their little attic room he was humming _Let It Go_. She smirked, kissing his cheek, which lead to humping like rabbits — Clint must've gotten a broom and banged on the ceiling, since she heard several dull thumps on their floor — then cuddling, basking in the post-orgasm afterglow.

"Wow," she whispered, putting a hand over her chest, feeling her racing heart. She couldn't remember the last time she came so often or so hard. "When they said you got increased stamina they mean it."

"'m sorry," he mumbled against her neck, trailing lazy kisses along her nape and shoulders. "I can use my hand next time if you—"

"No! God, no," she said, looking over at him; his mussed hair from her running her fingers through it and tugging at it during sex, his eyes closed as he drew nonsense patterns along her back, his lips kissing out the patterns he doodled. "I'm just… it'll take some getting used to." She smiled at him as she twisted around in his arms. He gave a little whine as her knee brushed his cock. She pecked his lips, and rested her head on his bicep, fingers dancing along his smooth chest. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, and she listened to the house creak and groan in the night, to the scuttling sounds in the walls. The wolves howled outside, always followed by the laughter of coyotes. She pressed closer to Steve, drinking in his scent of Irish Spring body wash, something that remaindered her of leather and his own natural musk.

"You weren't angry at Lila, were you? When we were dancing?" he asked, breaking the comfortable stillness and jerking her back into consciousness.

"When she said I was your princess?"

"Yeah." He nodded. "Then. You left right after she said that and I" — he licked his lips and swallowed — "I think it's—"

"I wasn't upset," she said, "at least not at her." She closed her eyes, pressing her face into Steve's neck. No, I'm upset at myself for wanting something I can't have. "I love you." She smiled as his arms tightened around her.

"I love you too, Nat," he said, reaching up and smoothing her hair. "And if something's bothering you, I'd… I'd like to know, so I can help."

You're too good for me. She smiled, pressing her lips against his neck. "I'm fine, Steve," she said. He didn't answer for a moment or two, she knew he didn't believe her. She couldn't tell him, it wasn't the right time for thinking about a domestic life. That sort of life was something beyond her grasp, denied to her forever. She could never give up being who she was, Steve would never give up being Captain America. They may be able to marry and continue doing what they do, but a _family_? Never.

Clint made it work because Laura was a full-time mom. She or Steve would have to stop being heroes in order to raise their child and she — despite how much she hated the Red Room — had worked hard to get where she was, she wasn't about to give that all up, no matter how much she wanted a family with Steve. And she knew Steve, he would never give up being Captain America to be a full-time dad (though she'll admit that him doing that would be very him and very sweet). If she told him that she dreamed of having a family with him, having that domestic life that Clint had, then he would do everything in his power to give her that. She knew it, saw it in his eyes. It was this knowledge that held her tongue, prevented her from telling the man she loved what she wanted.

She had told Bruce to run away with her, escape this life and settle down. He had shot her down, responding with and what then? He couldn't have children, and neither could she, so running away had died there. She wondered if Steve would run away with her if she asked. I doubt it, he wouldn't abandon everyone like that. She gave a frustrated sigh.

"Nat?" he asked, voice sleepy. She snuggled closer.

"Steve, promise me something."

"Anything."

"Don't leave me."

* * *

 **When I had originally decided to bring Nat and Steve to the Bartons, I was planning lots of fluff and Nat seeing Steve being great (eventually) great with the children.**

 **Ya'll get the angst.**

 **Lots of angst.**

 **Tons of angst.**

 **God has forsaken me, so I have forsaken you. ;p**

 **So, Part II focuses on Nat** _ **a lot**_ **, and I have a lot of headcanons about her life before Shield. That means, I'll be exploring her past relationships (mainly with Alexi), but that could mean some BuckyNat (since someone said I write them well together and because I do that well, I should write a BuckyNat fic). I'm not sure, and I'm rather have the story dictate to me where it should go instead of me trying to force it into something else. This is ultimately a SteveNat fic, and they are the primary focus. But since this is Nat, furthering her development from Part I, we'll have to delve into her past.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Silent readers, lemme know you're alive! Leave a kudos! (or a question about why I chose to do something the way I did? Seriously, I love those questions!)**


	21. Turn Loose the Mermaids

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _The mermaid grace, the forever call, beauty in spyglass on an old man's porch. The mermaids you turn loose brought back your tears. At the end of the river the sundown beams, all the relics of a lifelong lived. Here, weary traveler rest your wand, sleep the journey from your eyes. — Nightwish_

* * *

He was silent for a heartbeat, staring at her in surprise. "I can't promise that," he said. She pulled away from him, crawling out of their bed and leaving him bereft of her presents. "Nat, Natasha!" he said, trying to keep his voice down. He threw the covers off him, in two strides her reached her, grabbing her wrist.

"Let go of me," she hissed, tugging against his grip. He didn't let go, staring her down with a calm expression, willing her to understand. "Steve, let go."

"No," he said, pulling her closer to him. "Natasha, lemme—"

"You said 'anything'! Why won't you give me this? Don't you keep your promises?" she asked, frustration in her eyes and something else — hurt, grief… regret — he wasn't sure, but it made his heart ache. "Why won't you promise me this?"

"Because I made such a promise before!" he snapped. The pain of losing Peggy, making those promises — the date they never had — the crash and the cold water that engulfed him… all came rushing back and squeezed his heart. The warmth of her wrist kept him grounded though, and he was thankful for that, not wanting to fall into the maelstrom of his memories. "In 1945, as I was flying the Valkyrie into the ice. I made promises to Peggy. Promises to come back, to have a dance with her on Saturday night. And you know what those promises got me?"

"Steve—"

"Nothing!" he growled, guilt pricked him for being harsh, but she was asking him to promise her something that his experience told him was a fool's errand. "It brought both of us heartache in the end," he said, gentler, and she relaxed enough that he could pull her into his embrace. "It got us nothing in the end and I refuse to make you suffer in the same fashion. So, I won't promise you that."

"Steve," she whispered, her face hidden against his chest. He smoothed her hair, holding her.

"Hey, it's okay," he said, and slipped an arm around her thighs, lifting her up and carrying her back to bed. He pressed her against the wall, holding her in his embrace. "It's okay. I understand. The life we lead… it's hard to not ask each other to make such promises."

"It's not okay," she whispered, looking up at him. There was a darkness in her eyes, something he couldn't breach, and she refused to tell him. He longed to take it away, let her bathe in the light of hope and love. "It's not okay Steve. I know it's stupid and I know that you can't promise to never leave me, I mean… what if you find someone else? What if — after everything is said and done — I'm just not good enough for you and we break up and you hook up with Sharon? I get that," she said. "I really do."

"I'm not going to break up with you!" he said. "I'm not going to dump you, so I can be with Sharon! I'm basically an uncle to her… okay," he conceded, "I'm not _technically_ an uncle to her, but — our relationship is _weird_. I loved her aunt. I would've been Uncle Steve to her if I hadn't got stuck in the ice."

"I know, I know," she said, "but it's just… a… a possibility." Her eyes were so broken, so haunted by something she wasn't telling him. The last time he saw her this broken was the nightmare in Armenia. He had been helpless to help her then too. He knew little about her past, she was married to a test pilot that died, had a brief relationship with Bucky, and sometime after that Clint found her and rescued her. She had been a Shield agent since and then an Avenger and now this. He didn't know her birthday, where she was born, anything about her parents (save for the fact they were dead), or what her life was like before the Red Room — if she even remembered her life before the Red Room. The woman in his arms, that wanted him to make her an impossible promise, was an enigma to him. Yet, what he did know was that Natasha had a good heart, a bit rough around the edges and guarded, using snark and quips to shield herself when she got emotionally vulnerable. She cared about the innocent and the weak, was great with kids and wanted some of her own (he knew that by, how she would stare wistful and wanting at Lila and Cooper, or at a pregnant woman the few times they ran into one on missions or just a casual outing). Those things he knew, made him love her. "Steve?" she asked when he hadn't said anything.

"I love you, darling," he said, nothing but confidence in his voice. He held her, smoothing his hair. He wanted to make her feel better, wanted to bring that smile back to her face. He hated the look of fear in her eyes. He closed his eyes, sighing. "If… If it'll make you better, I'll make that promise," he said. Reluctance wormed its way into his heart, along with guilt.

"You don't have to," she said, "I won't force you into doing something you aren't comfortable with. You're right, I shouldn't be asking for such a promise."

But I want to make you happy, I want to take away your pain, even for a little bit. "Nat—" he whined. "Let me prom—"

"Promise me this then," she said, "always love me? Promise me you'll always love me and never let me be alone?"

Roundabout way of making me swear to the first thing. His lips twitched into an amused smirk. "I promise," he said, knowing he could swear that much to her. "I'll always love you, Nat, and I won't let you be alone."

She snuggled against him, a soft kiss finding its way to the hollow of his throat. He groaned. "Thank you," she whispered and closed her eyes. He held her, watching her as she drifted off to sleep. He loved watching her sleep, she was always so peaceful: her face laxed, no crease of worry, no guarded expression in her gaze. The only other time she was so open was when they made love.

I'd wish you'd tell me what's troubling you, he thought as he held her, sleeping tugging at him. I'll help make it better or at least ease the burden a little bit. He kissed her brow. "Good night," he said and succumbed to sleep.

* * *

Summer gave way to autumn; they settled into comfortable routine. He'd wake up in the morning, run to the town and run back again, the icy air burning in his warm lungs. Then he'd help get breakfast ready with Laura before talking shop with Clint and Natasha in the basement. They touched bases with Sam, who'd give a good report about Vision and Wanda. Vision had returned to Stark a few days ago, so Wanda and Sam had been wandering Budapest for a little bit, taking in the sights. The android had promised to return, and Sam said he'll let them know when that happened.

Then he'd play with Lila and Cooper, read to Nate and help Laura get lunch together. After the lunch dishes had been cleaned and put away, he and Natasha would take a walk to the jet and inspect it, then mosey on back to the house, talking about whatever struck their fancy. They had settled into this state of comfortable domesticity. It shocked him at how much he enjoyed it. This simplicity, no pressing matters to worry about. He had toyed with the idea of retiring one day, passing the shield onto someone else that can continue doing the work of Captain America. Yet, whenever he thought about it, he feared that living a simple life without fighting would be difficult. Though this wasn't the same as retiring, it was a taste. And it tasted so sweet, achingly so when he had Natasha by his side. The wife, the kids, the house in Brooklyn with a white picket fence… that cutesy dream he indulged in during the war — the one he thought had died with Peggy — exploded back into vivid vibrant life. The idea wormed its way into his brain, and he couldn't help but smile at it and made plans to talk to Clint about how to go about it.

Seeing the Bartons celebrate Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas was a delight. Halloween was filled with ghoulish delights, some traditions having to be alerted considering the situation (no trick-or-treating), and others added (Candy Hunt for example). Cooper and Lila enjoyed it, so in the end Clint and Laura had declared the celebration a success and discussed how to improve it for next year.

He was familiar with Thanksgiving; he and his mother had gone to the Barnes' every year to celebrate. Seeing Natasha and Laura in the kitchen, laughing and slaving away at the giant meal felt bittersweet. He sat on the couch watching football (he didn't care for it much) with Clint, his mind wandering back to his day dream. A Thanksgiving spent with his own family, the one he and Natasha built, in their home in Brooklyn. He could smell the turkey and the ham, the garlic in the mash potatoes and cream spinach, the brown sugar in the glaze for the carrots. Everyone had been looking forward to this meal. The last time he had such a Thanksgiving was two years ago with the Avengers, before the Ultron Crisis.

Tony had pulled out all the stops, going so far as to order a turducken and a whole suckling pig as the main course; the sides consisted of every imaginable Thanksgiving side from the various regions of the US (a few Russian ones thrown in for Natasha). He felt connected to everyone and Thor — who had come to partake in the annual Midgardian feasting — carved both the suckling pig and turducken. He felt as if he had a family.

This year was different. He was different, losing Peggy and the Avengers breaking up, opening his heart to Natasha, letting her in and loving her — fully and completely — being here and finding feeling a sense of peace. All of it had a profound effect on him. "Oh, c'mon! That's a foul! Foul!" Clint shouted, gesturing at the tv. He arched a brow at the archer and sipped his beer (not that he could get drunk, he drank it more for the taste these days than anything else). "Damn ref."

"Language," Laura chimed from the kitchen.

"Yeah, Clint, Steve doesn't like that type of talk," Natasha quipped, joining in on the teasing. He flushed and took a sip from his beer.

"You know what Romanoff," he called, looking at her. She had that twinkle in her eye, the one that set fire to his blood. She was moving around the island, something clutched in her hand and she came over to him. In the two and a half months that they had been here, she had changed in a way he never imagined. She was smiling more, laughing more; a softer maternal side to her personality that he didn't know existed (he suspected she had it, but this confirmed it) appeared. When they made love, it was sweet and tender, as if they had been doing this for their entire life time together. He wondered if this was what it's like to be married. This… _bliss._ He titled his head back against the couch cushions, a little smile on his lips as she stroked his cheek with one hand and planted a kiss on his lips.

"What do I know, Rogers?" she asked. She hadn't told him what was bothering her the night he promised her that he'll love her and never let her be alone. He didn't have the heart to bring it up again, figuring that she'll tell him in her own time.

"How good you are to me," he said. She laughed and put something in his mouth. He chewed, realizing it was a bit of ham. It was sweet with a citrusy tang of orange to it and just a hint of cinnamon and cloves. "This is good," he said, "got any more?"

She rubbed her hands up and down his bearded cheeks. "Gotta wait for dinner, Steve. Sure, you can do it. Won't kill ya."

"Dunno, maybe," he said, "super-soldier metabolism and all that."

"Would you two stop flirting and get a room," Clint grumbled, "not all of us are young and in love." He glared at them. "Some of us have kids."

"Hey, I'm ninety-nine!" he said, sitting up a little bit. "I'm an old man, let me indulge."

"Old man my ass, you can't be a day older than twenty-five," Clint said, "don't look like a ninety-nine-year-old man to me." He sipped his beer. Steve laughed, patting Clint on the back. Natasha left them to go back to the kitchen. The women struck up their conversation again and the game switched to a commercial. He shifted on the couch and nudged Clint's foot with his. "Oh, now we're playing footsie?"

"Shut up," he grumbled, "wanna ask you something."

"Oh?" Clint leaned closer to him, intrigued with whatever he had to say. "About what?" There was a shriek and he sighed, getting up before Laura yelled at him. He watched the archer go mediate the kids. He chewed his lip, took another sip of be and fretted about talking to Clint (of all people, the man was like a brother to Natasha, the closest thing she had to any semblance of a family) about what he wanted to discuss. If Clint agreed that meant a trip into the city, which meant he'll have to disguise himself, sunglasses and a ballcap wasn't going to cut it (as Scott had said when Bucky proposed the disguise option as an possible alternative to sneaking to hanger at the airport in Germany: they look like themselves in sunglasses and a ballcap). Clint came back with a sigh. "Sorry, Cap, kids."

"It's okay," he muttered and sipped his beer. The game came back on and he tried to follow along — football was so boring, he didn't understand what the appeal was — but at this point Clint had figured he was just pretending to be polite (which he was). The game broke for another commercial.

"Didn't even move a yard line, I hate the programming director," Clint grumbled. "Anyway, what did you wanna talk about?"

"It's uh… about Natasha," he said, dropping his voice into a low whisper, causing Clint to inch closer to him. "And my uh… intentions."

"Jesus, Steve, you're already screwing her," Clint said, "I'm not her dad and she's a big girl."

"No, not… not _those_ intentions," he said, ears going pink. "I uh… I wanna marry her." He watched Clint take a sip of his beer and choke, eyes bugging out and coughing, smacking his chest to make sure his beer went down the right pipe.

"You okay sweetie?" Laura called.

"Peachy," he said, and fixed him with a glare. Steve swallowed, nervous. The game came back on, but Clint ignored it, staring at him. "You want to _marry_ , Natasha."

"You make that sound like a bad thing," he muttered, "as if I just lost my mind and told you wanted to walk to the moon or something like that."

"I'm just… you _want_ to _marry_ Natasha?" Clint squeaked and he was beginning to wonder why Clint was having such a hard time comprehending the fact he wanted to marry Natasha.

"Yes." He never felt more confident about doing this, well maybe that wasn't true, he felt pretty confident that he could handle the vita-ray radiation when he was in the pod and feeling every fiber of his body breaking apart and regrowing. "I want to. I love her."

"But you two are so… _opposite!_ "

"You don't support my relationship with her?" he arched a brow, he figured that Clint would be the most supportive of his and Natasha's relationship. The fact that Clint seemed so surprised about this natural process of events, bothered him on a fundamental level. "I mean, if you don't, I'll convince you otherwise and—"

"No, no, it's not that. I support you two a hundred percent. You make her happy and she makes you happy that's plain as day, it's just that… I never expected you to… irunno, want to settle down and get married. I don't just don't think Nat's that type of person for all this peachy-keen domesticity." Clint offered up a smile. "That's all, Cap."

His shoulders slump as Clint voiced his own fears. "Oh." He glanced back at Natasha, who was laughing at something Laura had said. Lila had wandered into the kitchen, and Natasha gave her the spoon to lick clean; there was a warm motherly smile on her face. "She'd make a good mother."

"You know she can't have kids," Clint sad.

"Getting pregnant isn't the only way to have a child," he countered. Clint rolled his eyes. "Okay, yes, it's the only way for another baby to appear but" — he flushed — "it's not the only for a couple to have a child. We can adopt."

"And who's going to stay home and raise the kid? Natasha would never give up being who she is."

The game back on and he watched it without _watching_ it. He knew Clint had a point, if they did have a child, who would take care of it? Natasha wouldn't give up her career for a baby and he couldn't hand off the shield to be a stay-at-home dad. "I will," he said, realizing that he desired to be a father more so than Captain America. "I'll give the shield to Sam or Bucky—"

"Bucky's nuts — err… no offense."

"None taken. He's getting… the best psychological care in the world. I'm sure once the World Security Council evaluates him they'll clear him, and I can hand him the shield and retire in peace. Natasha can continue to be Black Widow and I'll just be… Steve Rogers, stay at home dad."

The crowd cheered, it sounded tinny coming from the tv. Clint swore at that, not caring for the other team much. The announcers read off the score and Clint rolled his eyes, giving up on the game and flipping to the Hallmark Channel, which had begun its Christmas count down with a brand-new Christmas movie. He watched it, Christmas movies weren't really a thing when he was a kid, not in the manner they are now. He found them warm and touching, centered around Christmas, and a bit cliché at times but it didn't matter, it was the message behind the story that counted. "Before you go chompin' at the bit to hang up your shield let's work on the first part of the equation: when are you planning on asking her?"

"I'm not sure how to bring up that fact I want to retire to—"

"Not that," Clint huffed, "about the first thing, marriage."

"Oh!" he said, nodding. "Dunno, Christmas sounded nice" — he glanced at the tv, the guy and the girl walked along a snow covered lane in a quaint Christmas style village, the girl telling the guy about her childhood — "don't know what to get her so uh… thought I give myself to her."

"Do you even have a ring?"

"No."

"Damn it." Clint pinched the bridge of his nose. "We'll have to go into the city." The movie came to a cliffhanger, breaking for a commercial. He sighed, realizing that was a problem. "Think we have some left-over washout black hair dye from Halloween," Clint said, looking Steve over. "Maybe if you shave…"

"What you aren't good at disguises?" he teased, elbowing Clint, a playful smile on his lips.

"I'm more of a sniper, and any infiltration I did was at night, so I didn't need a disguise, Nat's the master of disguise," he said. The movie came back on, as he expected the girl was upset at the guy for hiding what he was doing in the Christmas village that meant so much to her. "I think it'll work, we won't be there long and you'll have black hair so… you won't be that recognizable."

"I can wear sunglasses and a ballcap," he said. Clint snorted.

"Sure, add that too." There was another childish shriek, Cooper and Lila came thundering down the steps, Nate taking his time by sliding on his butt down them one at a time. "Cooper, Lila! Not in the kitchen!" Clint shouted, and Cooper changed his course to run pass them, blocking the view of the tv.

"Steve, c'mere and carve the turkey," Natasha said. He looked at Clint and shrugged, walking over and setting his beer on the table.

"I thought, since this way my house, I carve the bird?" Clint asked, he didn't sound hurt though. Natasha gave him a beady eye stare, an amused smile on her lips. He took the carving knife and fork from Laura and began to cut up the bird.

"You get to slice the ham," Natasha told Clint, then helped him on carving the turkey. He blushed, fumbling about and trying not to cut her fingers off. He managed to get the wing and leg off, slicing the breast and thigh. "Good job," she said, cupping his cheek to pull him close and give him a sweet kiss. He flushed, that husband-y feeling seeping through his body. Laura snagged Cooper and Lila, roping them into setting the table, Nate had joined his father on the couch, falling asleep there.

Everyone (minus sleeping Nate), migrated to the kitchen, Clint sliced the ham while Laura and Natasha put the food in the serving dishes. The kids helped transport the food from the kitchen to the table, leaving space in the center for the turkey and ham. He brought the turkey and Clint brought the ham and they all sat down around the table. He led them in a prayer of thanks before eating. The house filled up with laughter and happy stories of past thanksgivings. The food made its way around, piled high on all their plates. They ate with gusto, having been waiting for this all day. Everyone exchanged loving glances and he hoped his ears didn't go too pink when Natasha squeezed his knee beneath the table.

After the meal, he and Clint tackled the dishes, with few complaints from Clint (the promise of pile was a powerful thing). Dinner dishes cleaned, they sat down for pie and whipped cream (Nate was awake for this), and Steve shared stories of learning to bake pies from his mother. Natasha told stories of his grandmother and various Russian pastries she made. Even Clint had a story involving pie, though it was about getting a pie in the face (Steve said it still counted). The men cleaned the kitchen again, and they sat around the tv to watch one last Christmas movie before going to bed. He and Natasha made love, falling asleep in each other's arms.

* * *

The snows came early that year. The tractor had seized up from the cold, so he had taken to shoveling the driveway and a few walk-ways around the house. Clint was impressed, but he said it didn't both him, he could do this all day. They went tree hunting the weekend after Thanksgiving, bundled up in thick downcoast, scarves and gloves. Cooper and Lila had impromptu snowball fights and Nate kept trying to put the snow in his mouth. Cooper had suggested one of the ancient towering pines that lined the tree farm, stating that Uncle Steve could carry it.

"Yeah, true," Clint agreed, looking at one of the hundred-foot-high pines, "but our truck won't." Cooper hung his head in disappointment. "Don't worry, Coop, we'll get a big tree." They walked through the rows of trees, Laura and Natasha inspecting each potential tree, until they settled on a lovely Douglas Fir. He held the tree while Clint got on the ground and sawed it down. For safety reasons, he allowed Clint to help carry the tree (even though he could have managed just find on his own) and allowed the tree farm worker to take their prize. They rode the hay ride down to the shop, where Clint payed for the tree and they wandered around the gift shop.

He stayed by Natasha's side, his hand on the small of her back as they browsed the selected holiday decorations. "You having fun?" she asked, looking at him as she inspected a nutcracker ornament. "I danced this ballet once." She set it back.

"You did?" he asked. "And yeah, I am. Never did this before. Mam couldn't afford a tree, we hung stockings instead and I'd get a book, a new sketch pad and some pencils for Christmas. Not much but it was something." He sniffed, feeling the tears sting his eyes. "Even after the crash… she still managed to get me a few gifts." He rubbed he eyes with his thumb and index finger. "Wish I still had her bible." He picked up an ornament featuring a black bear with its cub on its shoulders holding a sign that said: _Home is where the heart is_. He glanced at Natasha, his smiling widening as he studied her, how her delicate fingers brushed the ornaments, her blond hair still in the bob she sported since finding him. There was a content smile on her face, a warmth in her eyes that she hid from the rest of the world. He could tell she was happy, that she harboured a special love for this holiday, despite her dark and bloodied past. She picked up a rabbit with a Santa hat that was holding a gift. A gold string was looped through the hook at the top of the rabbit's head. She smiled.

"What happened to it?" she asked.

"Hm?"

"Your mother's bible, what happened to it?"

"Got lost," he said with a shrug. "After I was selected for Project: Rebirth… I lost track of a lot of my old things, so I don't know what happened to it. It's a shame though, had my da's name in it, and her family going back to her great-grandparents on both sides. Little bit o' Ireland was what she told me it was, a little bit o' home." He shoved his hands into his pocket. "You going to get that?" he pointed to the ornament in her hand.

"Huh? Oh, uh… not sure yet," she said, and hung it back on the hook with the others. "I mean, I can't really get anything… never had my own collection of ornaments."

"You can start," he said, bumping her hip with his. "Sure, Clint won't mind holding onto them."

"Ste—"

"Grant," he said and winked. She nodded, catching on. "Tell you what," he said, finding a pair of turtle-doves, their beaks had magnets in them to make them kiss, one had a sash that read _peace_ and the other one's sash read _joy_. "We'll get these, one for you and one for me. Like the sound of that—"

"Mary," she said, a little smile mischievous smile on her face. He chuckled, taking the two turtle-doves over to the young clerk. Natasha followed, digging through her purse for some cash. He shook his head at her as he set the porcelain doves down, he pulled out his wallet.

"Oh, these are nice," the clerk said, smiling up at them. "Your husband's sweet, ma'am."

Natasha gave the girl a beatific smile, coiling her arms around his waist and resting her head on his shoulder. "Of course, he's a big softie. Just a teddy bear and he just loves doing these sweet things for me. Dontcha honey?" she cooed, batting her lashes at him.

"Y-Yeah." He chuckled, a boyish half-smile on his lips. "Just love seeing her happy. Christmas is her favorite." He pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, handing it to the clerk.

"Here with anyone? Didja get a tree?"

"My sister and her family," Natasha said, looking over at Laura, who was telling Cooper why he couldn't have a huckleberry lollipop. "We're from Philly and we're visiting. Grant can't help himself when he sees something I'll like though." She gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Right?"

The clerk nodded, counting out the change and handing it to him, then she wrapped the two turtle doves in some tissue paper and placed them in a little box. "Here you go," she said, and Natasha took the box with her right hand. "Merry Christmas," she said.

"Merry Christmas." Natasha gave her the biggest smile and left, fingers entertwining with his. They joined up with Bartons and got into the truck and collected the tree before heading home to decorate it.

Nobody said anything about the little act at the counter with the clerk or the fact that Steve bought her a couples' ornament. They reached home, setting up the tree in the living room (Laura had said it was the quickest they ever set up the tree, thanks to Steve). Laura made lasagna and they had dinner before dragging out the Christmas decorations and setting the house up for a festive holiday season. Christmas music played in the background, a mixture of new and old and traditional. They sang along to them, laughing at the silliness of things and enjoying each other's company. He hadn't experience this sense of familial warmth since before his mother died, when he was seventeen and Bucky had helped decorate their small apartment with strings of popcorn; that made him wish Bucky was here to enjoy this. He assuaged himself with the hope that next Christmas everything would be put to right and they could all spend Christmas together.

* * *

A snowstorm came, trapping them in a world of white and cold. Natasha seemed to enjoy more than everyone else, laughing and playing in the snow with the kids, making snow angels and building snowmen. She even dragged him out to have an epic snowball match with Cooper and Lila. Clint joined in on their side and they were victorious over the girls until Natasha used her spy skills and dropped a handful of snow down his shirt. She shrieked when he lunged for her, running off into the field of white. He followed her and though he was fast thanks to the serum, the snow slowed him down and she avoided his grasp for a few minutes before he pounced on her, tickling her and catching her lips with his. Clint yelled at them to get a room as Lila squealed in delight.

He dug out the truck and the drive way that morning, sat as Natasha dyed his hair black and shaved as the dye set. "Are you sure about this?" she asked, after rinsing his hair and frowning. He looked deathly pale with his clean-shaven jaw and black hair. "You looked like death warmed over."

"I think I look handsome," he said, mock hurt coloring his voice. "Besides, it's a washout hair dye" — he smirked, hands on her hips — "you'll help me wash it out right?"

"I already know the carpet doesn't match the drapes." She winked, that amused flirty smile on her lips again. He caught her lips in a kiss, a little growl escaping his throat as he nipped her lower lip. She arched her hips into his, grinding lightly and it was enough to get him aroused a bit. "Better go before Clint starts looking for you."

He growled, kissing her again before letting her go and flicked some left-over water from his hair at her. She squeaked, twisting away from the spray. He laughed leaving her in the bathroom, and meeting Clint downstairs. They bid farewell to Laura and the kids and headed into the city that was two hours away. They stopped at the grocery store first and then the mall. Steve swallowed, the last time he was in a mall Rumlow and his goons had been hunting him and Natasha.

"Just relax," Clint said, "just use cash. You have enough cash to buy a ring, right?" he looked at him, a brow arched and a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

"Nat had the money situation taken care of," he said, remembering the credit card that was tied to a Swiss bank account that she had passed out to all of them when they decided to split up. "I'll be fine." He patted Clint on the shoulder and headed to the jewelry store. The mall was packed, pictures with Santa in the main junction and decorations hanging from the ceiling. Everything was bright, everything glittered, voices echoed and mingled with the Christmas music that came from the unseen speakers. He found the jewelry store and went inside, squinting a bit at the bright light. He clicked his tongue at the scintillating jewels and gleaming metals.

"Can I help you?" a man asked, dressed in a suit and tie with his hair slicked back. Middle-aged by the lines around his eyes. "Looking for anything special?"

"Uh… an engagement ring for my girlfriend," he said, smiling a little bit. The man nodded, sweeping his hand along glass counter.

"We have many fine pieces," he said and pulled out two trays of rings. Steve looked them over, imagining them all on Natasha's delicate finger. Some were gold, others made of white gold and the more expensive were crafted from platinum. Most had diamonds, some had rubies, emeralds and sapphires. He found a white gold ring, with some filigree inlaid with diamond chips and a single raised diamond. Elegant and a little sparkly but not too gaudy. He held this one up. "An excellent choice," he said and took the ring, plucking the companion wedding band from the tray too. Steve told the man Natasha's ring size and he nodded, slipping into the back to get it. He came back a few moments later, and Steve paid for the ring. He slipped the little velvet box into his pocket and met up with Clint, who had his arms laden with bags and boxes. He took some to help his friend and they left.

* * *

The water was hot, almost too hot for him, but he didn't mind. He heard the door open and close and saw a petite figure through the hazy glass, a moment later Natasha had slipped into the shower with him, short hair wrangled into a bun. "Hey fella," she cooed, looking him up and down, she sucked at her lip. He grinned.

"Like what you see?" he asked, taking her hands and pulling her close. He kissed her lips, her cheek, and ended at her throat, sucking on her pulse point. She moaned softly, one leg snaking up his and he lifted her up to wrap her legs around his waist. "Can you reach the shampoo?" he asked.

"I thought we're going to do the fun part first?"

"This is the fun part," he said and kissed her breasts and she sighed, taking a step back so she could squirt some shampoo into her palm and wash his hair. "Having run?" he growled as she scrubbed her nails along his head. She whimpered, pressing her chest closer to his face as he sucked and teased her nipples.

"Steve…" she sighed. He sucked on the soft skin between her breasts. Her little mews and moans aroused him. "Water," she said, and he turned around, tilting his head back into the warm stream. She began to rinse his hair and then gave a loud shrieking laugh.

"What?" he asked. "Nat?"

"It's awful. It's like washing out oil and bunch of other grime!" she said, scrubbing the soap from his hair. "Don't do anything, don't want you to swallow this crap. Jesus Christ, I have it all over me." He chuckled, holding her as she rinsed his hair. She washed his hair three more times, getting most of the black die out, the ends remained stubbornly black still. He didn't care though for once Natasha had rinsed them off, he kissed her again, recapturing the moment with gusto. She moaned into his mouth as his hands ran up and down her body, cupping her breasts, his thumbs gracing her nipples. She mewed into his mouth, nipping his lip and that sent beautiful shivers down his spine.

His hands traveled lower, finding her wet heat and slipping a finger inside as he rubbed her sensitive nub. She whimpered, want clear in her green eyes and she grabbed his rigid cock and gave a long languid stroke up his length. He groaned, knees buckling and he added another finger, smirking just a bit as she mewed. "I want you, she whispered after a few moments and he nodded, looking around the small shower and trying to find a spot to brace himself and her without causing obvious damage to the place.

He scooped her up and pressed her against the wall opposite the door, hands gripping her thighs as he positioned her to allow him to thrust into her with relative ease. She smiled, cheeks flush from arousal and the warm water. "Gotta be quiet," he said, kissing her and then working his way down her throat and chest.

"You're the loud one," she teased, and he replied thrusting into her. She gasped, a loud moan escaping her throat, a half-hearted glare in her eyes. "Warning next time."

"You're the loud one." He winked at her and she pulled his face closer to kiss him. He waited until she had adjusted to his sudden girth and began to thrust, trying to not press her up against the wall so much and bare most of her weight in his arms. It was a tricky process to figure out at first, finding that rhythm that they both enjoyed. He found it soon, and Natasha was mewling and moaning in his arms. He grunted and panted against her throat, muttering incoherent nonsense as he neared the edge. She pressed her hand against the wall, the other tugging at his hair. They locked their gazes, both enjoying the expressions the other made, both drinking in the other's arousal. He shifted her weight, his arm snaking around her lower back and grabbing her right hip; he pressed his right hand between them, rubbing her nub until she was gasping high and sweet, her name tumbling sweet and heavenly from her lips. She closed her eyes, white teeth biting her lip; he growled at the sight. "Come for me, Nat," he whispered, thrusting into her, his pacing was starting to get more erratic as he neared his own climax. She came a heartbeat later, arching into his thrust and pulling his head into her chest. She bit her own arm to muffle her cry. Feeling her clench around him was enough to finish him off and he moaned into her neck; and hoped nobody else heard them.

She wiggled off him, but he continued to hold her and share sloppy kisses with him. The water had gotten cold now. "Wow," she whispered, smiling at him. "Never had sex like that in a shower before."

"Mmm, just wait until we're in bed, I have a few more tricks up my sleeve," he purred, kissing the junction where her neck and ear met. She laughed, smiling at him. "Think we're clean?"

"We're dirty," she countered, holding onto his shoulders as he let her down. He laughed, grabbing the bar of soap and a wash cloth. The washed each other, it was tender and intimate, cleaning each other and memorizing the various aspects of each other bodies. After the shower the snuck off to bed, and he showed her the other tricks he had up his sleeve (much to Clint's annoyance as he banged on the ceiling again with the broom).

* * *

By the time Christmas came there was no hope of escaping the Barton farm any time sooner than early March (if that). Not that it mattered, he had been pretty diligent in keeping the drive way and cars cleared, even going so far as to digging out the Stark jet. Still, it was more of a mindset. He didn't want to leave, Natasha didn't want to leave. They were happy here and for the first time in a long while, they had no worries. They had ham for Christmas Eve dinner, and the kids were allowed to open one present (a small one) before going to bed. They watched the children head to bed, staying up only an hour or two later than the kids, before going to bed themselves.

Sure enough, Lila and Cooper squealed in delight at the collection of presents beneath the tree and they all sat around opening gifts and sharing memories. It was warm, familial and Steve lost himself in that pleasant dream he been nursing since realizing he wanted to spend his life with Natasha. In his head he was in his house in Brooklyn with their son (he didn't know why but he felt like they'd have a son) and her, opening presents early on Christmas morning with the promise of more delights when they visited everyone at Avengers Tower.

He drifted through the day, caught up in his little fantasy and the ring he had in his pocket a heavy comforting weight there. He didn't want a public spectacle (not that they were in public, but he didn't want the entire Barton family watching him ask Natasha to be his wife). So, he waited, and thanked Clint later for getting him something for Natasha so she wouldn't be hurt that he didn't. He helped Cooper set up his new race track and grinned when Lila showed him her ballerina Barbie.

Dinner was prime rib, and he carved the prime cut of beef. It felt like Thanksgiving again, though with less food and more good cheer (not that Thanksgiving didn't have good cheer, but it was a bit more solemn and Christmas was a bit merrier). He and Clint did the dishes, since it was only fair, considering Laura (primarily) and Natasha made dinner for everyone. They watched Christmas movies as they sipped on mugs of hot coco, before the showers and bathes were taken and the children (and their weary parents) trotted off to bed.

Only he and Natasha remained, snuggled on the couch bathed in the light of the tv, Christmas tree and Christmas village; the large kitchen light having been turned off hours ago. His empty mug was on the table, one arm around her shoulder and the other resting in his lap with his hand on her knee. She was so beautiful in the warm glow. He kissed her temple, pulling her closer, wanting to feel her. "You're in a mood," she said, sipping her drink (she was nursing it something terrible). "What's up?"

"Nothing," he said, his hair no longer had the pricks of black at the end and his beard was growing back in. "Just… amazed at how beautiful you are."

"Steve," she said, rolling her eyes. "Have I taught you nothing about being coy and flirting?"

"Picked up a thing or two," he said, "but not everything." He tilted her chin, angling her head to look at him. He could get lost in her eyes for eternity and he wouldn't care. He felt at home with her. If someone on the street had asked him to describe home, he would describe her. This was his home, he always had one and it was her. He wished he realized it sooner, then things may have played out differently. He doubted it, but he liked to think it would have made a difference.

"Steve?" she asked, a wary note in her voice.

"I love you," he said, voice soft as he ran his thumb beneath her lower lip, "Natasha." He nuzzled her nose with his, reaching into his pocket to pull out the little box. "And, I have an important question for you." He thought about getting up and going down on one knee, doing it all old fashion and proper, but he dismissed the idea. They were snuggled together and he wanted to ask her in a lowkey fashion, plus this felt more intimate. He worked a nail into the groove and popped the box open; the diamonds caught the light and the white gold gleam. He heard her breath catch in her throat.

"Steve, what… what is this?" she asked.

Before he had always imaged taking his girl out on several dates, courtship for a year or two. Then the night he was going to propose he'd take her to a fancy restaurant and do it in front of everyone. But Natasha had told him the night he gave his virginity to her, that they had been doing their courtship their own way: dates in the guise of fighting aliens and killer robots and evil secret organizations. Stolen moments and touches and long wanting looks from across the table (that made Tony look twice and shut up because could Captain America and Black Widow really be into each other and he didn't know? Oh, the horror!). He realized that it didn't matter that his courtship with Natasha had been convoluted and unorthodox, it didn't change the feelings in his heart, didn't change the fact that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, maybe even figure out a way to have a family with her. He loved her, that was the honest truth and he prided himself on his honest. "Natasha… no, Natalia" — he gave her a boyish smile — "would you marry?"

* * *

 **This is the longest chapter I've written for this series. I didn't want to break it up but damn it was hard because a lot of it was exposition to move things along, and that throws off my style.**

 **Originally there was going to be a flashback about Steve's 13** **th** **Halloween, but I decided to save it for later and make it a stand alone fic that'll go into my domestic life collection titled The Little Things in Life.**

 **I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. Now gotta thing about what happens next (and find a song for it too).**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Love my silent readers, leave a kudos in the comment (or ask a question).**


	22. Nemo

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _The one without a name, without an honest heart as compass. These lines, the last endeavor to find the missing lifeline. Oh, how I wish for soothing rain; all I wish is to dream again. My loving heart lost in the dark, for hope I'd give my everything. Oh I how I wish for soothing rain, oh how I wish to dream again; once and for all, and all for once: Nemo, my name forever more! — Nightwish_

* * *

The ring sparkled in the dim light, the silver gleaming bright. She stared at it, then looked at him and then back at the ring. Her heart was in the throat, her palms clammy and her breathing was erratic. Never in a thousand lifetimes did she expect this to ever happen. She stared at Steve's open, honest and hopeful expression, then back at the ring, then back at him. He licked his lips, glancing away, nervous and unsure due to her silence. "You want to marry me?" she asked, sounding unsure.

"Yes," he said, though he didn't sound as confident as he did a few moments ago. "I do." He sighed, snapping the box close and setting it on the table. She felt a bit better with it out of sight. It was such a small thing, trivial in the grand scheme of the universe, but to her it was symbolized more than just a wedding and a lifelong commitment; to her symbolized a sense of trust in their love — in _Steve's love for her_ — that once broken was nigh unrepairable. She trusted like that once with Alexi, and he ended up dead. "Nat, look I—"

"Let me think about it," she said, taking his hands. She dreamed of their wedding once, with their friends and everyone they knew and cared about watching them take this next step. Clint had walked her down the aisle, to where Steve and the priest waited at the altar. She swallowed, her throat tight with emotion. She smoothed her thumbs over his knuckles; his hands, so big and strong yet with slender fingers, artist's hands, and they were so gentle. She loved his hands, how they held her, touched her, made her feel safe and warm and loved. Calloused from a life time of fighting — of protecting — the innocent and the weak. The hands of belonging not to a perfect soldier, but to a good man. "I love you," she said, the words slipping from her mouth soft and earnest. She wanted to make him see it, understand that her feelings for him hadn't changed (they never will).

"Then why?" he asked. It broke her heart at how broken he sounded. "Why won't you give me an answer?"

"Because the answer you want," she said, "is the answer I can't give you right now." She brought his hand to her face, kissing the palm. Guilt squeezed her heart, coupled with her shame; how many times did she imagined this while they spent the holidays with the Bartons? How many times did she day dream about being Steve's wife? Yet, now that he asked her the balked, tucked tail and ran in the opposite direction. All because surrendering herself and tying her life to him in such a fashion was too much to her.

"If it's about having kids, that's okay," he said, trying to assuage her fear. "I don't care. We don't need kids to be happy. And if we really want kids, we can adopt. There are plenty of orphans that we can take in." He gave her that adorable half grin she loved so much. "Imagine one of those orphans learning that Black Widow and Captain American wanna adopt them, huh? Boy, wouldn't that make that kid just smile like no tomorrow?" He cupped her face. "But all I need in a family is you."

She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. "Steve," she breathed. She couldn't marry him. Didn't he realize what, no _who_ she was? She was Black Widow. The spider that mated then killed and ate its mated, a woman that marries and then kills her husband. Alexi had married her, and he ended up dead. She didn't want that fate to befall Steve, couldn't let that fate befall him. The pain in his eyes — it wasn't for him, it was for her — broke her heart. She wormed free of his embrace. "I need some air."

"Okay," he said, standing up and rubbing his palms on his jeans. "I just—"

"I'm sorry," she said and bolted from the house. The door closed behind her with a sharp thud, breaking the stillness of the night air that was bitter and cold. It didn't bother her; she was Russian, cold was second nature to her. She closed her eyes, holding her tears back and slipped her feet into her boots before trekking out into the knee-deep snow.

She had no direction, no purpose, and she lost herself in the excursion. Overhead the sky was ink black, ten billion stars bright and twinkling. The wolves howled in the distance, but the coyotes didn't laugh. The silence was deafening, pressing in around and smothering her. She stopped half way to the barn where the jet was and the house, white puffs of breath escaping her mouth. The wind blew, a soft whispering sigh across the frozen landscape. She shivered and looked up at the sky; her tears froze to her cheeks.

* * *

The man was fat, mortally so, and his breath smelled of tequila and cigars. She swallowed down the bile that tickled her throat as he kissed her. She returned it, matching his apparent passion, and tried to find that black void within her mind to forgot that he was rutting into her like an aged boar way pass his prime. He was a target, nothing more, she didn't know why he had to die, only that he must. As Black Widow it was her mission to make him die. He babbled at her in nonsense Ukrainian, squeezing her lithe body and perky breasts. She sighed through her nose and faked a few erotic moans. She tried pretending his hands were Alexi, his touch was Alexi's, but it hurt too much. Alexi was gone. Never again would she come home and be greeted by his smiling face or his inane idea about getting a pet (he had been trying to convince her to get a dog lately).

Her target's thrusting got erratic, his jowly face turning a gross shade of pomegranate, sweat trickling at his brow. He was close, and she had been ignoring everything. No matter, the Red Room had taught her to fake an orgasm. He came a few heartbeats later, and she pretended to come with him. Only this one didn't give two fucks about her pleasure, as he pulled out before she could put on a convincing act. "You are a pretty thing," he wheezed, sweat trickling that rolls of flesh on his chest; his chest a woolly sweaty mat of salt-and-pepper hair. The bile at the back of her throat was most insistent. "Yuri was smart in hiring you." He yanked her into a sitting position and she gave him the innocent virginal girl look he seemed to like so much. He kissed her, demanding and rough, groping her sex. She suppressed the shudder, going to that calm void inside her mind, the place where she locked away all her emotions. "Whatcha name again?" he asked, eyes heady with lust.

The smile she gave was that of a young woman, battered and broken but still so naïve, so trusting; "Oktober," she whispered, allowing her voice to break a little. He grinned, showing off his crooked yellow teeth.

"Oktober," he said, "I want you to suck me off."

Oh hell no. She looked at his flaccid cock, poking out from the rolls of sweaty foul-smelling flesh that was his gut and thighs. She wanted to gag; he scratched his belly, the fat jiggling with the action. She was Black Widow, she trained for this. All she needed was to apply the lipstick and the poison would do the rest of the work. "Lemme freshen up, yes?" she asked, gesturing to her face.

"Nuh-huh," he said, grabbing her wrist with his sausage fingers. "I want your pretty mouth on my cock as is," he said, tracing her lip with his thumb. His touch made her skin crawl, she didn't show it though. She was too good for that. Instead, she gave him her sweetest smile, locating her pocket mirror that doubled as holding her garrote; there should be enough wire in there to get a few loops around his fat piggish neck that she could asphyxiate him.

"Of course," she said, and went down on him. She didn't wince as she licked his cock, taking more of it into her mouth. Ignored the smell that radiated from his groin and focused on her mission. She flicked her eyes up when she felt his hand thread its way into her hair, smirking when he began to moan and whimper. She bit down then, hard enough to taste blood. He squealed like the pig he resembled. With a swift motion she broke his wrist and vaulted to the vanity, grapping her pocket it mirror. The garrote _whrrrped_ free and she looped it around his neck three times before pulling it tight and using her weight and momentum to push him into the bed. The bedding muffled his terrified squealing, and she let out several loud erotic yelps of delight to further throw off anyone that could be listening. He struggled for a bit longer and with each twitch she felt she pulled the garrote tighter and tighter until he stilled. She slid off his meaty back, panting and undid the garrote, pressing a button to send it zipping back into the bottom of her pocket mirror. Backing up to keep her eyes on him, she grabbed her pistol and her other lipstick. She flicked the lipstick it out and kicked it beneath the bed, smiling as she twisted on the silencer. She hoped the pig asphyxiated but his neck may have been too thick.

He twitched, groaning. Damn it. She frowned, and hopped back onto his back, pressing the gun to his temple. " _Svin'ya_ ," she hissed and pulled the trigger, the bullet entering his brain and killing him. She got off him, wiped her prints from the gun and molded his hand around the weapon and pressed it to the bloody hole in his skull. She grimaced. This was a sloppy kill. Ivan would be displeased, but today she didn't care. It had been two years since Alexi's death and even though she told herself she didn't care that Alexi was gone, that she never loved him, the ache in her chest that she had ignored the entire mission began to demand that she notice it.

She gasped, and not for the first time she thought about running, missing her rendezvous point and seeing if she can't track down Alexi or his grave, so she could put some flowers on it. She gathered her things, rubbed the lipstick from her lips. A knock sounded on the door. "Boss?" the voice said. She swallowed, it was that American he had hired as his head of security. "Boss, they're here. You decent?"

She looked around, before bolting into the bathroom and locking the door, she climbed onto the toilet, moving a ceiling tile and climbing into the space between the ceiling and the next floor. She replaced the title and crawled towards the bar, she could hear the American finding the pig's body as she crawled, telling his two underlings to find her and bring her to him. This was supposed to happen later, long after she was gone. Like she told herself: this was a sloppy, very sloppy.

She found the bar and removed the tile. The DJ dropped the base, the lights dimming until it was dark and she slipped out, dropping behind the bar and yanking off the brown wig she wore and stuff it into her small bag. She kept herself low to the ground as she slinked around the bar, working her way into the crowd and smiled at some of the patrons, thankful they were too drunk to notice. She sat down and ordered a ginger ale, acting as if she was just a part of the scene. The American came out, telling his men to fan out and look for her in a harsh whisper. This was the tricky part, getting out without being spotted, but she done it before. This was child's play if it was any other day. It was starting to become clear to her that Alexi's death had more effect on her than she liked to admit.

The American slid into the seat next to her, looping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close; she didn't miss the sharp jab of the knife into her side. He turned his head, pressing his forehead against her temple. To any on looker, they were a tipsy couple in love, not an assassin being confronted by her target's hired muscle. She arched a brow. "Don't talk," he said in a low hiss into her ear, "my name is Hawkeye. You and I are going to have a little chat."

* * *

Natasha heard the snow crunch behind her. "Lovely night, the aurora's pretty here," a voice said behind her. She looked over her shoulder. "Agent Romanoff."

"Nick," she greeted, a little smile on her lips. "Didn't expect to see you here." She looked up and smiled at the aurora borealis dancing in the sky. It brought memories of her childhood with her grandmother.

"Where's Agent Rogers?" Fury asked. She jerked her head at the house and turned to face her old boss and mentor. "Changed your hair."

"Still have the eye patch," she said, and rubbed her arms, realizing the cold for the first time since she came outside. "C'mon, I know you didn't just show up to give Clint his Christmas present."

"I may have, never know." He fell instep behind her, using her footprints to get through the snow. They didn't talk on the way back; she ignored her shivering body, the fact that snow had gotten into her boots and soaked her bare feet. She just wanted to get inside and snuggle up against Steve and—

"Something wrong, Natasha?" Fury asked, a hint of concern in her voice. She found that void again, where she put all her emotions into little boxes and locked them away, yet this sadness refused to go away. She had broken Steve's heart, told him no without saying it, _rejected_ him. She should just ask Fury what he wanted, get the mission down and… and forget about Steve and her stupid heart. She was Black Widow — _you can't live without your heart solnishko, nobody can. Nobody is an emotionless void_. — she didn't need her heart.

"No," she said, gathering herself again and continuing to the house. "Nothing's wrong." She heard Fury grunt in recognition and continued to follow her. They reached the house in a few minutes and entered its welcoming merry warmth. Steve was still there, opening and closing the box that the engagement ring was in. He looked up at them, face placid though a bit wary.

"Fury," he said, standing up and shoving the box into his pocket. She glanced at Nick, noting his arched brow and then at Steve, she failed in suppressing the shiver. "Jesus, Nat, you're shivering," he said and scooped up the blanket on the couch and coming over to her. He wrapped it around her shoulders, fussing over her as if nothing happened, as if she didn't just ran off and left him to pick up the pieces of his shattered heart. He didn't seem to care that Fury was standing right there, watching them. "I can heat up some water again, make you a cup of tea."

"No, I'm fine," she said, trying to smile at him, but her lip quivered.

"About time you two," Fury said, walking pass, them and easing into the armchair. "I would love some tea, though."

"Sure," he said, running his hands up and down her arms. For a moment she thought Steve would press a kiss to her temple but he didn't and left her to start the kettle. She sat on the couch, looking at their former boss.

"Sorry to drop in like this," Fury said, "but technically I don't exist and you two are running from the law."

She smiled. "So his Clint, but I'm sure he'll understand," she said, "do you want me to wake him?"

"No. I don't need him for this." He pulled out a manila folder, Cyrillic stamped on the top half and the English translation on the bottom. He slapped it down on the table; she stared at it, her blood going cold. "Project: Red Guardian."

"Why do you need me?" she asked, glancing back over at Steve has he putz in the kitchen fixing tea for her (even though she had said she didn't want any) and Fury. "I've never heard of this project before." Steve came back, handing her and Fury their mugs of tea. He sat next to her, putting his hand on her knee and giving it a squeeze. Fury said nothing about the causal yet intimate contact and she didn't brush him away. In fact, his hand on her knee felt comforting and she resisted the urge to lean into him. "Just because its Russian, doesn't mean I know about it."

"I know that," Fury snipped, sipping his tea. "This is good."

"Thanks, uh… Clint's wife has a thing for tea," Steve muttered. "New mission?"

"Yes. You and Romanoff are to head to Kiev, meet up with Wilson." Fury took another sip and if Steve was surprised that Fury knew where Sam was, he didn't show it. In fact, neither was she; Fury always seemed to be omniscient and omnipresent, it unnerved her at times. "Rumor has it that your old handler is moving, and I don't like it when he moves."

"Ivan Petrovich is dead," she said, "died a year after Clint pulled me out."

"That is what he'd like the world to _think_ happened" — Fury tapped the folder — "but you know how spies are, Natasha."

Only a little too well. She grimaced as Steve picked up the folder and began to flip through it. Most of it was in Russian, there was some English here and there but not enough for him to understand. The three of them sat in silence, the two spies watching the soldier flip through the folder. She watched as the pictures went by: her handler, her kills, her in various disguises, her past laid bare for Steve to look through. His greatest achievement in espionage was her, and it made her sick that Steve was seeing this. He flipped to another page, a picture of a young man in a pilot's uniform, a cocky grin on his face. Her heart leapt into her throat, she made an aborted attempt to snatch the folder from him. Steve flipped to the next page and she saw Alexi, stripped of his shirt and strapped to a table, with tubes embedded into his skin. The next few pictures showed him being experimented on, and then a chart with: УСПЕХ — success, stamp in red ink across it. Steve set the folder down. It took her a few moments to realize that he was staring at her in concern.

"Nat?" he put a hand on her shoulder. "Nat, are you alright? You're crying."

"I'm fine," she said, sniffing and wiping away the tears. "I'm fine," she repeated and forced a smile, only then did Steve drop his hand, lacing his fingers together and fixed his gaze at Fury.

"What was that?" he asked, a steel edge to his voice. They never talked about his serum or the people throughout the latter half of the 20th Century that tried to recreate it; she learned early on that it was a sore spot with him, as if he felt like he was some sort of bearer of Dr. Erskine's final wish to see the serum to the betterment of mankind oppose to the opposite. She knew he was aware of the attempts to replicate him (the idea that people have been trying to clone Steve for seventy or more years never sat well with her) and that he disliked the idea (though dislike may be too mild of a word, she just couldn't fathom Steve hating anyone).

Fury sighed, drained the rest of his tea and leaned back into the chair. "His name was Alexi Alanovich Shostakov," he said, "used to be a test pilot for the Russians, then in 2005 he was recruited for a mystery project" — Fury tapped the folder — "Russia's answer to you in a sense. Project: Red Guardian."

"Why haven't we heard about him before?" Steve asked. "Has he hurt anyone?"

"Alexi would never hurt anyone," she said. "Alexi is a good man. He's sweet and kind… hell he was trying to convince me to get a damn dog before he died."

"Nat."

"I know this is difficult for you to accept, Natasha," Fury said, a hint of sympathy in his voice, "but the man you remember and the man he is now aren't the same."

"Is he a psychopath now?" she snapped. She could feel herself shaking. Zima had been right, Alexi was alive. Alexi was alive and—

"No, but you know the training they put you through, the training they probably put him through. There's enough of him left but—"

"Not enough to question why," Steve finished, "just like Bucky."

"In a way," Fury agreed. She looked at her tea, then around at the Christmas tree and Christmas village, their lights still glowing. The tv was still one, some late-night infomercial raving about the latest product in the background, the noise a dull buzz at the edge of her senses. All of that didn't matter, all she could think about was Alexi: his smile, his laughter, his brown eyes like melted chocolate; he had wanted a dog, had been trying to coax her into getting a puppy, even going so far as to find a breed (huskies if she remembered) and telling her that it'll be fun, like having a baby only without all the other things that babies came with.

Fury was talking with Steve, telling him something important but she couldn't follow, couldn't think and she was thinking about Steve and his damn ring and the ache in her heart. It hurt so much, she hadn't thought about that gaping hole Alexi left in her heart for years. Her grandmother told her that only love could heal wounded hearts; had Steve been unknowingly healing her battered heart? She wasn't sure anymore. "— not yet. Russians never got a chance to use their new Red Guardian. Been deployed mostly for domestic terrorism and disputes. Until the invasion of the Crimean Peninsula."

"Now Petrovich is on the movie, taking this guy with him and using him as muscle." Steve had that frown on his face, the one she come to understand meant he was very unhappy with something. "What do you want us to do?"

"Go in and stop him," Fury said, "quietly."

"Then just send me. Steve is in enough trouble with the world government and—"

"If you had a chance at the Red Guardian, would you take it?" Fury asked.

"You think I'm compromised?" she looked at her old boss. "That I can't do my job because they took my ex-husband and made him into some super-soldier and then brain washed him?"

"That's exactly what I think," Fury said. "I don't think you could put a bullet in Alexi's brain when push comes to shove." He stared at her with that one mesmerizing eye. "You still love him."

She heard Steve suck in a breath. "I _loved_ him, past tense, Nick," she said, tilting her head a little. "I can do this," she said.

"Rogers is still going with you," Fury said. She bit her cheek, angry at Ivan for lying to her, angry that she still cared about Alexi (maybe in some ways still loved him — no not love, most like cherished the nostalgia connected to him), angry that when it came to letting Steve have all of her she was too much of a coward, angry at Steve for being too noble and honorable for his own good that he had to protect Bucky which lead to Tony finding out that Bucky killed his parents and the sundering of the Avengers. But most of angry at herself for not letting taking what she wanted and trying to ignore her past.

She nudged Steve, bit harder than she needed to. "Put it on," she said, offering him her left hand. He stared at her, moonstruck; Fury arched a brow. "Rogers, put the damn ring on."

"N-Nat-Natasha?" he stammered. She sighed through her nose, wondering when this sudden streak of impulsiveness came from.

"I accept, Steve, I'll marry you." She smiled, allowing her expression to soften, her love for him to bleed through. For if there was one thing she was sure of it was her love for Steve. "I _want_ to marry you."

Steve glanced a Fury, like a puppy asking permission to do something it knows it's not supposed to do; when Fury didn't do anything but arch a brow, a small giddy smile appeared on Steve's face as he pulled the box and put the ring on her finger. She smiled, looking at it as it caught the light. He gave her hand a squeeze, the happiness bright in his eyes. "Congratulations," Fury said and stood up. "I want you two gone by ten tomorrow morning, thing you can do it?"

"We will," Steve said, giving her hand another squeeze. She gave Fury a smile that didn't reach her eyes, her nerves still a bit raw that he didn't trust her to kill Alexi.

"Send Barton my regards," he said and left, the door closing behind him with a soft click. She sighed, looking at her hand, the ring — a pretty silver thing with a single raised diamond, the filigree resembling leaves with some diamond chips studded in it — that sparkled in the dim light. She was Black Widow, and now she was engaged to (of all people) Captain America.

* * *

 **Eh, I was hoping to hold off her accepting for another chapter, but I figured Natasha would get irked enough with Fury thinking she couldn't take out Alexi, that she'll just accept as a way to prove that she's over him.**

 **She loves Steve. I don't know why I feel the need to stress but I will: Natasha loves Steve, with all her heart.**

 **Anyway, this'll be a last chapter for a little bit, I'll be taking a small break to partake in Romanogers Week.**

 **Also, for those of weak constitutions: This fic is gonna plunge straight into hell. It's gonna get dark. Its gonna get painful. And you'll probably hate me for putting the babies through this shit, but eh… I'm a sadist. When I wrote And We Run chapter 3 and hinted at Alexi, I knew he was going to appear, and I knew Nat was going to have to confront her past. Crucible of fire and blood, and all that. ;)**

 **Hang in there gang!**

 **Save an author; leave a review**

 **PS: I left success in the Cyrillic because I wanted to give a visual representation of what it looked like on the paper.**

 **Svin'ya means pig in Russian.**

 **I normally don't use the work of the same band for two chapters, but _Nemo_ just really captured what I wanted for Natasha's emotional state of feeling lost and trapped between her future and her past. So, that's why we get double Nightwish. Plus Nightwish is my favorite band and _Nemo_ is my favorite song. :)**


	23. Where Is the Edge

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

 _In the end you will give up the fight. Unescapable! 'Cause you're losing your mind and you sleep in the heart of the lies. Where is the edge of your darkest emotions? Why does it all survive? Where is the light of your deepest devotions? I pray that it's still alive. It's the rule that you live by and die for. It's the one thing you can't deny even though you don't know what the price is, it was justified._ _You can't stop yourself_ _;_ _don't want to feel_ _,_ _don't want to see what you've become_ _._ _You can't walk away_ _from who you are._ _— Within Temptation_

* * *

They packed without speaking; they didn't have much and any gifts they got for Christmas had been with the fact that they needed to up and leave at a moment's notice foremost in their minds. Only both she and Steve had hoped that things wouldn't be so pressing, that they both could wait a little longer and enjoy their time together. Almost three months of peace and quiet was nice, but now with the looming mission in their minds (back to Russia no less), she wasn't sure if she could do this. She paused in packing, glancing at her left hand. The ring sparkled in the dim light, she fought the urge to take it off and hide it in her pocket. It was pretty with silvery white gold and clear diamonds, a symbol of purity. How could she ever be worthy of such a ring, when her hands dripped scarlet. She looked at Steve, who had finished packing and was pulling on his uniform. The red and white stripes had darkened due to grime, a hole was starting to appear near the star on his sternum. He sniffed, rubbed his nose and grabbed his bag. "Ready?"

No. "Yeah," she said, she had changed into her cat suit before packing and donned the Kevlar vest to complete the ensemble. She offered him a weak smile, swallowing a little. There was so much she wanted to tell him, to make him understand that this mission was better done by her alone; that he should stay here and let her take care of her past. "I hate to leave Clint like this without saying goodbye," she said. "After everything…" she trailed off and shook her head and Steve close the gap between them, lifting her chin up with a crooked finger.

"He'll understand, he knows how our lives are."

Her lips twitched into a semblance of a smile as she pulled her head away. "I know." She bowed her head, thumbing her engagement ring that felt alien on her finger. The urge to take it off was strong, but she fought it, aware that Steve was watching her fiddle with it.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" he asked, tucking some blonde hair behind her ear. She knew he'd ask that, knew she was off her game when Fury brought up Alexi and Ivan, of going back to Russia; her sudden agreement to marry Steve when minutes before she had been considering telling him she needed time to think. She bit her lip and nodded, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. "Because if you aren't, Sam and I—"

"I'll be fine, Steve," she said, a faux smile on her lips, "this… It's something I must do. Catharsis."

He thumbed the ring, a pensive look darkening his eyes. "Alright," he said. He let out a long sigh, taking a step back and that felt like he had put miles between them. Their closeness over the past months seemed to have vanish and she felt like they were back at the beginning. Distant, hesitant, and unsure of what they wanted from each other. Her hand twitched, wanting to reach for him but she didn't.

"Steve, I—" the trap door opened, and Clint poked his head in. He looked tired, worn out though not surprised to see them dressed as they were. "Clint."

"Nat," he said and gave her a smile, nodding when his eyes caught the ring on her finger. She covered her left hand with her right, feeling subconscious about it. "Steve."

"Sorry about this," Steve said, gesturing to their bags. "Afraid we can't stay for breakfast."

Clint chuckled. "It's okay, Laura's up and she made some food for the road. We knew this'll happen sooner or later," he said. "Take care of her for me, will you? She's my sister from another mister." He winked as she rolled her eyes. "It's true!"

"Don't worry," Steve said, grinning, "I will." His gaze softened, and she looked away from his intense stare, torn between going to him and telling him to stay behind. Clint looked at her, and she gave him a tight hug.

"Be careful out there, Nat. You're going—"

"I will Clint," she said, "I'm not the same person I was back then. I'll be careful." She pulled away and looked at Steve, finding strength in his silent presence. Clint nodded and went back down. She followed and caught their bags and then Steve appeared and closed the trap door. The kids weren't up, just Laura making toast and ham. She slipped the toss-together breakfast sandwiches in bags and then into an old plastic grocery bag. Her hair was mussed from sleep, her robe open to reveal her nightgown, but she smiled at them warm and maternal as she handed the bag to Natasha.

"You be careful," she said, "don't make Clint come after you." She gave them a weak smile. She nodded, feeling the warmth of the food in her hands. Steve was stoic beside her, but there was a tenderness in his gaze. "Hopefully we'll see you for Christmas next year, maybe there'll even be a new addition to the family."

Clint coughed. "Oh, wow… um… I don't know if Clint can handle baby number four," she said. "But if there is one, I hope it's a girl this time. Still waiting for baby Natasha."

"Oh, I wasn't talking about me!" Laura laughed, and mimed scissors and jerked her head at Clint. "I was talking about you two."

She stared, feeling cold dread creep up her spine. She only told two people about her infertility issue: Bruce and Steve. Clint didn't know though she suspected he had guessed, and she knew he'd never tell Laura something so personal without her consent. She jerked when she felt Steve wrap his arm around her waist. "I don't think we're _quite_ ready for that step just yet, Laura," he said, giving her that winning smile he was so famous for. "Maybe Christmas after next or the third Christmas, there may be."

"Ah well," she said, "I just want a little niece or nephew to spoil. Nat's been spoiling my kids for years, so it's time for some payback."

She gave a half-hearted smile to complement Steve's forced laugh. "We'll see," she said, agreeing with Steve. She set the food down and gave Laura a hug, and then hugged Clint again. "Be careful too. Ross and—"

"Don't worry about me," he said, "I'm a master spy and assassin, I can keep Ross off my tail." He winked at her. "It's you I'm worried about," he said, dropping his voice. "Going back t—"

"I'll be fine Clint," she said, her voice taunt with annoyance that the two men in her life that she cared most about felt she was some fragile flower. She needed to face her past sooner or later. A past like hers had a way of eventually catching up with a person, whether for good or for ill. There was no escaping it now, her past was back, and she had to face it.

"I know," he said, she knew it was more to ease his own worry than hers. He hugged her again. "Good luck." He let her go and she picked up the bag of food and smiled at Laura again.

"Ready?" Steve asked her, and she gave a nod, following him out of the house and into the snow. It hadn't snowed during the night, so the path to barn was still clear. The world was grey and silent in the pre-dawn gloom, the stars twinkled in the inky blackness of the night sky. In the east, as the sun rose the stars faded though Venus shimmered a toxic green at the edge of the horizon. Cold air chilled her lungs with each breath and she knew the food would be tepid by the time they reached the jet. They didn't say a word, lost in their own thoughts about the impending mission, the crunch of snow beneath their boot was the only sound that broke the stillness.

* * *

She scrapped the tuna can into a small bowl, the cat meowing on her countertop. The stray started coming by a few weeks ago, she coaxed it into her apartment with food. The cat came and went as it pleased and she didn't mind, though whenever it did visit she felt better about everything. Though she never spoke the cat's name alloud, she'd taken to calling it Alexi. "There you go," she whispered setting the tuna before the cat and stroking its silky fur. Ivan was telling her about her latest mission, silvery smoke billowing out of his mouth with each word he spoke.

"You'll be heading to Kiev." She poured some coffee and came to stand in the gloaming, watching her handler with wary eyes. She took a sip. "Name's Yevheniy Vladislavovich Popov. Ukrainian mother, Russian father. Fat as a pig."

"What's the mission?" she asked, the coffee was weak. Her last mission she needed to get information from a French godfather. The money he had from all his illegal dealings had allowed him to purchase only the finest coffee money could buy. Needless to say, the few weeks she stayed in his company she'd gotten spoiled on expensive coffee. Still, weak coffee was better than no coffee, and she took another sip.

"He's been causing trouble for our friends," he drawled, another cloud of wispy smoke curling about his head. Ivan looked swallow, his cheeks sunken in, grey eyes hollow and his hair was starting to thin. He smoked like a chimney and she figured the cigarettes were finally killing him. Wouldn't it be funny, if Ivan was killed by cigarettes? She quirked a smile at the thought that she hid behind her coffee cup. "They want him to disappear."

She paused in taking a sip, then took it. The cat had finished its food and rubbed up against her legs, purring with soft content mews. Her heart hammered in her chest, trying to shoo the animal back into her kitchen, knowing what Ivan would do if he saw it. Black Widow did not have attachments, Black Widow did not love. Black Widow was a tool to be used and set aside until the next use was required. "Shoo," she whispered, prodding the cat away with her foot.

"Natalia?"

"Why not send _him_?" she asked. She had a few encounters with _him_ before. The first when she was a girl on the cusp of womanhood, learning how to fight. He had been an instructor in arms combat and the garrote. He was stocky, his right arm rippled with muscles and sinew, his shoulders large and powerful. His eyes reminded her of chips of ice, though they seemed clouded with an unseen fog. She learned much beneath his tutelage. Ivan had worked with the mysterious Siberian branch of the Red Room, where _he_ had come from. The second time had been a few months ago in St. Petersburg, in her apartment there. _His_ hands had roamed her body, coaxed sweet sighs and erotic moans from her, as _he_ filled her up and made her forget her life for a rapturous moment. _He_ had babbled in her arms afterwards, telling her of a half-remembered life. A city with a watchful green lady, a bloody war, a woman whose name started with a D (Dottie, Dollie, Ditzie? _He_ laughed and tell her _he_ couldn't remember), and a scrawny strip of a man with eyes blue as the endless sky and a heart purer than gold. The cat mewed again, arching against her legs and slipping behind the couch that Ivan sat on. Her heart leaped into her throat; she prayed to any god that would listen that the cat would leave Ivan alone.

"They want this done quietly, he's too flashy," Ivan said, and took a draw on his cigarette. The cat hopped onto the other arm of the couch and slinked towards Ivan, meowing. The man arched a brow and she kept her face a neutral mask though inside she willed the cat to bolt and leave Ivan alone. "This your cat?" he asked, petting the feline and speaking in hushed tones to it. The cat purred, lifting its chin for scratches.

"No, just a stray," she said, "I try to ignore it, but it keeps coming back."

"Ah." Ivan stood up, the cat bolting beneath the table that she leaned against. Her handler dropped the file on the table. She glanced at it. "You leave day after tomorrow," he said, "I'll pick you up." He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray she had there and headed to the door. He paused only to put his coat and hat on. He left, and she felt herself relax, the cat came out from hiding, rubbing against her.

"You fool," she told the cat, "he could've killed you." The cat meowed at her. She swallowed the rest of her coffee in one gulp, dropping into a crouch and petting the cat. "What am I going to do with you _solnishko_?"

* * *

She jerked when she felt Steve's hand on her shoulder. The doors to the barn were open, the ramp down and she wondered how long she had trekked down memory lane. "I never saw that cat again," she muttered, staring at the plastic bag in her hands. She just assumed that the cat had wandered off, it was a stray after all, and it had a habit of coming and going. But she knew that Ivan had gotten rid of it, some way.

"Nat, are you… okay?" Steve asked, squeezing her shoulder. "If you aren't, I—"

"No, I'm good," she assured him, pressing their breakfast into his hand. "C'mon, I'll get this thing moving. Where did Fury say we needed to go? Poland?"

"Yeah, Sam'll meet us in Kiev." She heard his footsteps as he followed her into the jet. The pilot's chair was plush and cushy, she wouldn't expect anything less from Stark; she flicked switches and as she hummed, the jet rumbled to life and she eased the hefty machine into the clearing before taking off. Steve sat next to her as they took off heading into the east. Punching in the coordinates to Kiev into the GPS she turned around to eat. The sounds of the jet filled the space between he and Steve, a mechanical rumble instead of words. The food was warm, tasted of love and home and that greasy diner feeling (though it came from Clint's kitchen). The act of chewing consumed her conscious thoughts, counting each bite until she reached thirty-two and then she swallowed before taking another mouthful. Never once did she glance at Steve, though she felt his eyes on her, prickling her skin and asking her questions she did not want to answer.

"Stop staring at me," she said, "it's unnerving."

"I'm not… staring," he said, a bit defensive. "Do you know what… do you have any idea what'll be waiting for us in Russia?"

Memories. Memories of blood and pain, cruelty and hatred. "Gimme my bag," she said, snapping her fingers. He handed it to her, she dug through it until she pulled out the file that Fury had given them. Alexi in his red and gold uniform, a hard line instead of his usual gay smile The love of life had vanished from his brown eyes, replaced by something she didn't want to think about. The next picture was Ivan, still smoking like a chimney, though he had become a wizen old man with wispy white hair. She couldn't fathom how he wasn't dead yet, how he was still alive. Maybe he finally decided to test one of his experiments on himself and he managed to live longer because of it. Her brows pinched together, her lips turning into a small frown; the report was grim. Ivan had been buying up certain pieces of property what once belonged to the Soviet Union's more mysterious branches, the ones that Americans made movies about because how could something _this horrible_ , _this cruel_ , _this authoritarian_ ever exist in a country that shouted that it was a "democracy" to anyone who listened. "Russia was never a democracy."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing," she said and flipped through the pages. Ivan was building something. He was one of the last of the Red Room operatives. Madame B was gone, the other girls she grew up with — who knows, but she assumed they had been killed or vanished into the wind. That left her, Ivan and Alexi, apparently. At the bottom of the last page, stamped in black ink was the word: Eliminate. Natasha swallowed, both Ivan and Alexi had to die for the betterment of the world.

She could still feel Alexi's fingers against her cheeks, tender kisses with traces of vodka on his lips. He'd tell her of his childhood in one of the fertile valleys of southwest Siberia with the Ural Mountains looming imposing grey sentinels, telling her stories how his cousin Yuri wrestled a bear and fought a tiger off with a broken vodka bottle. The tenderness in their love making and how he had kissed her forehead afterwards. Now he was twisted in this mockery, this _Red Guardian_. She dropped the file back into back, standing up and pacing the length of the jet, biting her thumbnail. Alexi had wanted to get a dog with her, told her he knew a breeder that had some husky pups for sale and would give them a discount since he was a friend. Alexi had wanted a family. He had come from a close-knit family filled with aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents. Crazy, brash, boisterous and bound by love; it was natural he wanted to build something like that for himself with the woman he had fallen in love with. Since she couldn't have children, he was attempting to fill the void with a dog. She sighed, tears coming unbidden. He was just a test pilot, he was just serving his country with pride and devotion. Being associated with her caused him to become something he was not supposed to be. "Alexi I'm—" she looked up at Steve. "Steve?"

"I… I know this is going to be difficult," he said, taking her hands and giving them a squeeze. The gesture was comforting, she smiled at him. "I felt the same way when Bucky showed up on that helicarrier. Sam told me that Bucky was the type of stop not save."

That stung, she pulled at her hands, but his grip tightened. "Are you going to tell me the same thing? That Alexi is the type you stop, not save?" She glared at him. "Because I—"

"No," he said, his voice was soft, steady and understanding. He thumbed her engagement ring. She looked at it, feeling cold sensation pool in her stomach. There was a war in Steve's eyes, she could tell, a war between what he wanted and what he felt was right. "If he can be saved, I'll do everything in my power to do it" — he smiled at her — "nobody deserves to be used against their will, and—" he stopped, swallowing down an unpleasant emotion. He was the losing the battle his sense of justice outweighing his own personal desires.

She stood on her tiptoes, kissing him as she pulled her hands free and snaking them around his neck. "Thank you," she said, "but Alexi is my past. You," she whispered, pressing a hand against his sternum, tracing the grimy white star, "are my future."

"Natasha."

"Besides," she said, dropping back down and giving a nonchalant one arm shrugged, "where am I gonna get a view like this."

"Could think of some places," he said, a soft purr in his tone as his hands fell to her hips. He pulled her flush against him, bucking his hips a little and sucked at neck. A moan escaped her throat and she felt a pleasurable shiver run down her spine. He came up for air and she saw the question in his eyes. Pulling away, she wrapped her arms around herself, thumbing the engagement ring. It was heavy and foreboding, all its implications and commitments. Steve deserved better than her; he'll learn all her dark secrets, her bloodstained past. How could he want a woman like her? She was a pariah. She had alluded that she was a monster to Bruce and he had agreed (or rather he did nothing to dispute the fact). Steve had told she was anything but that, though in her heart Bruce's silent acceptance of her statement weighed more than Steve's reassurance of the opposite. "Nat," he said. She turned and looked at him, schooling her face into a tranquil mask of calm. "I know whatever it is… whatever you're afraid of, I'll be right here, by your side. We're partners."

"I know."

"When I asked you to marry me, it wasn't something I did on the spur of a moment. I'm in this all the way" — a smile quirked along his lips — "until the end of line."

She bowed her head, blonde hair hiding her expression. He deserved better than her. "Steve…"

"Whatever we fine in Kiev or Russia, we'll face it together. I promise."

"Do you always keep your promises?"

"Yes," he said, cupping her cheek. "You're not alone, Natasha, you've never been alone. I'm right here, right by your side, every step of the way." She let him kiss her and it was what heaven felt like.

She pulled away first, aching for more than just a kiss. "I'm sorry," she said, "I do love you Steve and—"

"I figured you needed some time to think," he said, giving a little shrug, though she could tell it irked him a little.

"I wouldn't… I love you," she said, "I don't love Alexi anymore. I told you that before. Hell I thought Alexi was dead and…" she stopped when he kissed her again.

"It's fine," he said against her lips. "When this is over we can work out the details."

"I want you to understand that I… I—" she stopped when he pressed a finger to her lips. His eyes smoldered, molten sapphires. It sent shudders down her spine.

"We have a couple of hours until Kiev," he said, his finger tracing her lips, her jaw and her collarbone. "Maybe we can… occupy our time?"

His touched seared her skin and her body arched against his touch, wanting what her mind was refusing to accept. "We can go over the mission file again."

"Already remember what's in it," he said, "anything other excuses? Never thought you'd be saying no to me." He chuckled and kissed her ear. "I remember that smirk you gave me all those years ago at the Bartons when I got on your case for me being a language police."

"Oh?"

"Never got to wipe that smirk off your face." She squeaked when his hands dropped to the back of her thighs and lifted her up onto his hips. "Think I'll do it now."

"Rogers!" she shouted, smacking him on the shoulders. He laughed, eyes sparkling. "Sneak."

"There we go," he said, "love it when my best girl smiles." She blushed. "So beautiful." He kissed her, and she gave in. Kiev was, like he said, a few hours away. They had time.

They had time.

* * *

 **Well, I hit a slump after Romanogers week. Finished a Hero's Journey (don't get it. It's a junior novel and an insult to the intelligence of late grade school children. I mean it was cute for what it's worth and I liked the Captain America part, but meh), and now I'm trying to get back into the groove of things and find a job (which is moving at a glacial pace).**

 **I have the rest of the story outlined. I'm predicting 34 chapters, so ten more chapters. This is the last push, the ends all tied up and we'll be ready for Infinity War.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**


	24. Scarlet

**MCU (c) Marvel**

* * *

 _This night is cutting into me, you tie me down and you watch me bleed and we… risk everything tonight. They will never know all the blood we shed, the scarlet cross we bear until the bitter end, and they… they can never know just what we've done. Nothing good will come of this, I'm screaming out with my last aching breath: I'll be yours until my dying day, but I can never see you. We, we knew how this would end, and we knew we'd die before we lived, but I'll never let you go. We knew how this… would end. — In This Moment_

* * *

He's awkward. That was her first impression of this test pilot, this Alexi Alanovich Shostakov, this man that was to be her husband. He almost seemed intimidated by her — his eyes kept darting about, unable to look at her directly. She arched a brow as he ran his hand through his brown hair, he plucked up his courage and thrust his hand to her. "Alexi Shostakov," he said, sounding breathless. She wasn't sure if he was scared or thrilled and she looked at his hand with a cool impassive expression. He licked his lips, making a nervous sound as he curled his fingers into his palm, withdrawing his offered hand. He shoved his hands into his pockets. She didn't understand why Ivan had brought her here. He had told her that the KGB requested her presence, nothing more. "So, uh… what's your name?" he asked, smiling as he curled his lower lip in.

She blinked and glanced at Ivan, who stood in the corner of this cold grey interrogation room. He gave her a nod. "Natalia," she said. He grinned, it reached his eyes.

"Natalia," he said, "that's pretty." He shuffled at forty-five-degree angles, looking at the steel chairs and table between them. She squinted in confusion at his befuddlement. "Can I sit?" he pulled back a chair, the scrapping sound loud in the boxy room. He took his peaked cap off, puffing out his cheeks in a sigh as he ran his hand through his hair as he leaned back in the chair. "Sit, sit. I uh… I insist." His lips twitched. "I feel rude if you're standing. Oh!" he got up as if a thought struck him and came to her side of the table, reaching towards her.

She grabbed his wrist, twisting his arm back, flat of her foot meeting the back of his knee and he went down with a pained and startled yelp. A snarl curled her lips as she jammed her knee into his spine as she forced him to the ground, her other foot pinned his opposite hand. "Natalia," Ivan said. The sound of her name caused her to snap her attention to her handler. She blinked. "Let him pull your chair out for you." She let him go and took a step back; Alexi twisted to stare at her, fear and awe mixed in his brown eyes. He got up, wincing as he rubbed his wrist and pulled her chair out. Her handler gave another nod and she sat down as Alexi returned to his seat.

"I never seen a girl— _woman_ , move like that," he said, "pretty impressive." He leaned back in his chair, taking a pen from his pocket and fiddled with it. She watched him, studying him. Sweat beaded at his forehead, eyes darted from her to Ivan and then to random points in the room, his pulse flickered in his neck — faster than a resting heart rate, indicating anxiety or nervousness. The harsh fluoresce light glared down, a bright shiny spot in the middle of the steel tabletop. The clock behind Alexi ticked away the seconds, the only sound in the room aside from the squeak of Alexi's boot as he tapped his foot. She put her hands flat on the frigid steel table, tilting her head to the side. "I uh… my cousin Yuri, he practiced sambo and—"

"What do you want?" she interjected, her tone neutral with a steel edge to it. He dropped his pen, muttering a curse as he bent over to pick it up. The door to the interrogation room opened. Two KGB agents walked in, the first one carried two files, the second one was brawny as a bear. Ivan was no longer in the room. She swallowed, eyes flicking over the two agents. The brawny one had a baton on his left hip and a pistol holstered to his right thigh. He favored his right leg; a slight limp was apparent as he walked. He rolled his shoulders, a knife in a shoulder holster revealed itself as he did so. The other agent was tall, athletic in build and had the same armament as his fellow agent. No limp but his height, she could use against him. "Lt. Shostakov," the first agent said.

The table jerked when Alexi hit his head. "What hell…" he stopped, rubbing his head and noticing the two KGB agents. "Oh, I'm so—" he stopped, stumbling over himself as he got to his feet. She sucked in the corners of her mouth to keep her smile at bay as she watched him knock his chair over to stand and sketch a hasty salute. "Agent Barsukov, I, uh… I didn't—"

"Sit down Lieutenant," Barsukov sighed, pushing the two files forward. She picked up her copy, flipping through it. Her face was impassive as she read it over. Finished, she set it down before her and fixed Barsukov with a neutral unyielding stare. "Jesus, do you ever smile?"

"Not particularly," she said, slow blinking like a cat, noting the shudder ripple down Barsukov's frame. A smile graced her lips; the ticking clock added to the miasma of the interrogation room, and the other KGB agent coughed into his hand, trying to diffuse the awkward uncanniness of the situation. She knew nobody liked dealing with her, that any mission the KGB had for her they funneled through Ivan and only if he approved of it and it didn't run counter to the Red Room's agendas. The Red Room — the KGB's top-secret espionage division that birthed the Black Widow Program — that birthed her, was a dark whisper among the halls of the KGB. The only other rumor with the same amount of terror was the base in Siberia, that house the Winter Soldier… or so the legend goes, operated by a mysterious man named Aleksander Lukin. Barsukov had reason to fear her. She wasn't fully KGB and her loyalties were to the Red Room (and by extension to Ivan), nobody could read her and the two agents knew she could kill them, despite their advantage in size and strength.

"Uh… Agent Barsukov… why are we here?" Alexi asked, she looked at him, tilting her head to the side. His Adam's Apple bobbed as he swallowed and tugged at the collar of his shirt. He had that expression again, she seen it on men before (the one where they are torn between fear and arousal); Alexi seemed to more aroused than scared. "I'm a test pilot and she's—"

"Black Widow," Barsukov said with a grunt. "I know." He grumbled something and pulled out a little box from the pocket of his pants. It was small, black velvet with a gleaming silver edge. She narrowed her eyes at the sight of it. Barsukov popped it open to reveal a diamond engagement ring. He set it on the table, nudging it closer to Alexi than to her. "You two are to be married."

* * *

"…married— Natasha? Natasha. _Natasha_ ," Sam said. She looked up, eyes wide as she stared at Steve. Snow drifted down in lazy zigzags, swirling as people walked pass in a rush, the cobblestone streets of downtown Kiev blanketed with white and crisscrossed with tire tracks. The little café she sat in with Steve was warm and cozy, some current pop hit playing on the radio, the Ukrainian grating on her haughty Russian hearing.

"Sam, what have I told you about bogging down the comms with insipid chatter?" she asked, as she took Steve's hand, offering him a smile that was for show and not affection. They had been in Kiev for two days, waiting for their contact to get them onto a meat cargo ship that was heading down the Dnieper River to the Crimean Peninsula. Steve didn't like this plan, as it involved Natasha calling in on an old friend that knew her during her Red Room days. There was another option she figured, stealth op similar to how Shield's STRIKE team would operate. Granted, Steve was familiar with such an operation, but her contact had assured her that this was the ship Ivan was using to smuggle whatever he needed from the city to Russian held Crimea. If Fury knew of Ivan's operations than sure has hell Ivan was expecting her to come after him.

"Yeah, you said married, so are you and Steve getting' hitched."

"That sounds painful," Steve grumbled, rubbing his temple. He had shaved his beard down to a rugged stubble look, a wealthy young American with his American wife. The part of sickening sappy newlyweds was easy to play and was only _half_ a lie. Steve seemed uncomfortable with PDA in general, so she smirked when she dragged the toe of her boot up the side of his leg. He shifted, the chair creaking as he cleared his throat, twitching his knee to dislodge her. The glare he fixed her way was only half-hearted and she smirked. Yes, playing a newlywed couple that couldn't keep their hands off each other was easy, only _half_ a lie. "Nat's right though."

"It's not insipid," Sam said, "and I wanna know."

She brought her hand up to her mouth, covering her lips as she pretended to laugh. "Yes, we are. No there isn't a date. Stop asking and pay attention. Zinoviy said the trio will be passing the alley at four o'clock, the ship leaves at five. We need to be—"

"I gotcha, it's just that… I'm happy for you two. You guys deserve it. Having to deal with Steve making googly eyes—"

Steve shook his head. "I didn't _stare_ , Sam."

"—at you was painful most of the time. Now he can stop staring."

The expression on Steve's face was one of annoyance. He was always too easy to tease, and she loved how his ears would tint pink whenever she hit the nerve just right. "Oh, he still stares—" Bingo!

" _Natasha!_ " Steve's ears turned a bright pink.

"He's just not as ashamed about it as he used to be." She gave him a sweet flirty smile as she leaned forward and took his hand, kissing his palm. "Are you?"

"Now who's cluttering up the comms with 'insipid chatter'?" he asked. She pressed her index finger against his, angling it towards his mouth, but he out maneuvered her and tapped her nose instead, before cupping her chin. "No." A smirk graced his lips in response to her pout. "You okay though?" he asked.

She hmphed, knowing he'd notice the distant look in her gaze before Sam asked about their impending nuptials. "Fine, Steve." They had made a silent agreement not to discuss her sudden change of heart. He wouldn't press her, Steve wasn't the type of person to; instead he would stare at her with those baby-blue eyes, wearing her down little by little until she confessed to him on her own. "It just…" A woman with a knit hat on her head and a matching scarf walked pass the window, her phone pressed to her ear. Natasha watched her walk out of sight, a small smile on her lips enjoying the tender back and forth motion of Steve's thumb across her knuckles. Two men in dark parkas and scarfs walked down the street, gesticulating as they talked about whatever — sports if she had to guess — that held their fasciation. The alley across the street was dark and empty, she had seen a cat enter it a few minutes earlier, an orange tabby. Above the alley Sam was in a room in the abandon office building, and she knew that there was fifty-seven people in the café, three exits: the front door, the emergency exit and the employee exit in the back. The fastest way out in case of trouble was the employee exit in the back and the security cameras were for show and didn't work. "It just brings back memories." She smiled, wistful, as she tucked her blond hair behind her ear.

"Snow reminds me of the war," he said. "It muffles sound, so we had to be careful when we moved during the winter in case there was a sniper. I always heard them before anyone else and dealt with them. Still… it's as if you know — instinctively — that you're out of your element in winter."

"Yeah." Her smile though smile, reached her eyes. "Winter always reminded me of my childhood. It's Russia, so there's always snow for most of the year."

"It was northern Germany, New Year's 1944. We were celebrating, and it was snowing. I went outside because it was getting too rowdy for me, Peggy followed, and we started talking about our childhood." He grinned, chuckling. "She tried to teach me to dance, but she was rather tipsy at the time. We almost kissed, but Bucky came out to take a leak." He leaned back; she smiled as his grip on her hand tightened. "Never seen him so red before when he heard Peggy clear her throat. Thought he'd die of embarrassment. He'd go red for days after whenever Peggy was around."

"Funny," she said.

"Yeah, it was."

"Hate to interrupt you two but your guy was right, got them, just slipped into the alley," Sam said. She saw them glance around and duck into the alley. She gave Steve a nod.

"We have them," he said as she stood up, and tugged at his arm, acting every bit the impatient young wife. One or two people glanced up only to look back at their phones or laptops, nobody paid them any mind. The bell jingled overhead, and she gasped at the drastic change in temperature. The cold air was a shock to her lungs, her ears feeling numb. A shiver ran through her body as she glanced left and right before crossing the street with Steve.

"You've tagged them, right?" she asked, the snow crunching beneath her boots. Instinct guided her away from the slick patches of ice, her grip tight around Steve's hand, leading him through the hidden mine field of black ice and snow. They entered the alley, Sam on the rooftop, silhouette against the iron grey sky. The sun was setting, the temperature was dropping along with it.

"Redwing's on their tail."

"There's another alley a few blocks down. I'll head them off that way. Nat, you come at them this way," Steve said. She felt adrift when he let go of her hand; she watched him leave the alley and head down the street. "Sam you come at them from—"

"You know, I know the original plan was for all three of us to get on board, but someone needs to stay behind in case things go south," she said, walking briskly down the alley. She slipped her hands into her pockets, wiggling her fleece gloves off and working her hands into the supple leather of her Widow's Bites. "Sam's the best choice for this."

"I don't know Nat—"

"I agree with her Steve," Sam said. She smirked. "You'll guys need someone on the outside to getcha out if things go wrong."

"Be easier if we had—" Steve began. The three thugs came into view, Redwing hovering above them and just out of sight. She charged her bites.

"Lots of things would easier if things were different, man," Sam said. "Withdrawing Redwing." The robot angled up and away.

"Engaging," she said, and sprinted towards them. She heard Steve in her ear as she dropped to her knees, sliding on the dirty snow towards the three thugs. She snapped hers arms outward, ramming her bites into the first thug's groin. He gave a strangled cry as he jerked with the voltage running through his body. She stood up, kicking his face. She blocked the punch of the other man, grabbing his wrist and twisting his arm and punching him in the elbow. There was a sickening crunch, she punched him in the throat and kneed him in the gut. He doubled over, Steve's sudden elbow to his spine sent him down to the ground with a groan. She smiled. "You're holding back."

"Didn't want to break his spine," he said, looking down at the man that groaned at their feet. He grunted as he began to undress.

"Maybe you should have." She followed his lead, revealing her catsuit. She shivered as she zipped it up to her chin. She kicked the pants off and tossed them in the nearby dumpster. She pulled out a black duffle bag, opening it to reveal her handguns and clips. She shimmied into her dual thigh holster, her handguns a comfortable weight and added a few knives to the mix. Steve was waiting with two of the thugs' coats.

"You need to wash that." She accepted the coat, wrinkling her nose as the stench. It covered her weapons and she jammed the black knit beanie onto her head. Steve copied her and shrugged.

"You don't exactly wash this," he said, "besides the grime hides the stripes and star. Less recognizable."

She walked pass him, leading him towards the docks, he fell instep beside her. "I'm saying it smells."

"Eh" — he gave her a jaunty jerk of his head, a cocksure smile on his lips — "I'll air it out after this if it bothers you."

"Second rule of going on the run: Don't wear heavy scents."

"I'll file that away for future reference."

"I'll make a spy outta you yet, Rogers." She smirked, eyes twinkling and the snow crunching beneath her feet. His fingers brushed hers in the briefest and lightest of touches, sending pleasurable shivers down her spine.

* * *

Getting on the ship was the easy part. The captain yelled at them for being late and asked about the third guy. She lied, telling the captain he was sick and only they could make it. He swore but waved them on board, saying that they couldn't wait any longer otherwise his boss would have his head. "Sam, we're onboard," she whispered, as they stood in the shadows of the stacks on the weather deck.

"Okay. I'll meet you guys at the rendezvous point on the peninsula. Radio silence from here on out."

She paused, glancing at Steve. He gave a nod, trusting her. She licked her lips, looking about the nondescript cargo ship. The smoke deck was in the opposite direction, but it was dusk and it had been relocated to somewhere where the red cherries of the cigarettes would not be noticeable on the open water. Nobody was out here, nobody would notice them. Steve was deferring to her leadership in this because it was her field of expertise at the moment. "Sam, listen to me," she said. "Whatever happens… if we aren't back at the rendezvous point on schedule… don't… don't come looking for us. Stay put."

"Natasha!"

Both Steve and Sam's voices sounded too loud for their protective darkness. Her throat tightened, she swallowed. "Trust me, Sam. We'll be okay."

"Natasha—"

"Trust me." Her voice was sharp, her eyes fixed on Steve, willing both to understand, to listen to her. Steve shouldn't be here, this is my fight. Not his. "Trust me," she repeated.

"No. I'm not going to let you and Steve get stuck out there without backup," Sam said, "if you two are back on schedule I'm looking for you."

"Sam!" she hissed. "Listen, you gotta trust—"

"Initiating radio silent." His voice cut out as he turned off his communication device. Steve popped his out of his ear; she couldn't read the look on his face. She took hers out of her ear, slipping it into a pouch on her belt. She slipped out of the coat, dropping it on top of the one Steve discarded and she crouched with him in the shadows. A quick glance to make sue the coast was clear; she moved, slipping from shadow to shadow. It always surprised her how quiet Steve could be when he wanted to. While she was lithe and agile as a spider, his grace and agility stemmed from a jungle cat: coiled muscle and power ready to be unleash in a blink.

She could hear voices up ahead, speaking in Russian. Crouching in a thick patch of shadows, she found the speakers and was glad for Steve's presences at her back. Three men: a middle-aged man dressed in workman's clothes, an old man that smoked like a chimney, and a third dressed in a uniform colored red and gold.

"What are they saying?" Steve asked. She gave a shrug, too far away to hear. The smoker seemed displeased, shaking his head and the man dressed in red and gold stepped towards the worker, who flinched.

"That looks to be the Red Guardian," she whispered. He grunted.

"Definitely a super soldier."

"Do you think you can take him?"

"Only other super soldier I fought was the Red Skull," he said, "Erskine said that formula was incomplete. Was there intel on the serum used to create him in the file?"

"Not that I saw. But if there was, knowing Ivan" — she jerked her chin at the smoker — "he wouldn't put that in any report he had to give to someone else." Oh, Alexi… what has he done to you? Her heart broke upon seeing her ex-husband in that red and gold uniform. The Red Guardian was a few inches taller than what Alexi had been, broader in the shoulders with rippling muscles. He cowed the worker, who nodded and lead him and Ivan below deck.

This was it. Yesterday, Redwing had scanned the ship, giving them a blueprint of the deck layout. Third deck, just above the engine room, was where something suspicious was going on. Their mission was to get the intelligence, stop Ivan and the Red Guardian from executing their plot and get to the rendezvous point, all within the span of five days. She looked over her shoulder, Steve's hand on her back. Comforting and familiar, she couldn't help but smile at that, despite the overwhelming understanding in her bones that he shouldn't be here. This wasn't his fight, his problem. It was hers. "Let's go," she whispered, slinking across the weather deck to the hatch that lead to the lower decks, Steve following her.

The swells on the Black Sea were calm, the ship's pitch and roll hardly noticeable. Within the belly of the ship, the crew had already switched the lights from daytime white to nighttime red at sunset. "Watch your step," she whispered as they tiptoed through the eerie red passage ways of the ship, the frame numbers glowing a creepy neon green in the red light. She made a left, heading down the passage way that led to the galley. Another left, and down the ladder to the refer decks, where the food and the ship's meaty cargo was stored.

"Natasha?" he asked, as she opened the heavy door to one of the meat lockers. Cold air rushed out, misting as the temperature changed. Carcasses of pigs and cows hung from the overhead on hooks, covered in ice crystals. Her heart thudded against her chest, she was sure he could hear it, sure he suspected something was up. This was a meat locker, a dead end.

"They're coming." Damn, she hated lying to him. She found that void within her and shoved her feelings into a chest (a tiny box wouldn't do), locking it. "Get in. I'll draw them off."

"No, we stick together, we're a team."

"Steve, you gotta trust me. Into the meat locker, I'll draw them off. They won't be able to catch me."

"I don't like this," he said. "We're a team… partners, I—"

"Now, Rogers!" she growled. He glared at her, hands clenched into fists at his side, but he went in. "I'll leave the door unlock." No, I won't. She watched him walk in and waited for three heart beats before she slammed her entire weight against the heavy door. It closed with a defending slam, Steve's surprised shout muffled by the insulation and steel. Her hand slipped from the latch when he slammed his body against the door, causing it to shudder. Someone would have heard that, close it, close it, _close it_ now damn it! Her fingers fumbled for the latch as he pushed against the door. The latch, half in place, was starting to strain. Gritting her teeth, she wrapped her fingers around the cold metal and pushed, closing the latch in place.

She jumped when at the sound of a bang and a fist shaped dent appeared. Tears pricked her eyes as guilt washed over her. The door muffled his voice, but she knew he what he was saying: Demanding she open the door, they were a team, she didn't have to do this alone. She closed her eyes, allowing a few tears to fall. "I'm sorry, Steve," she said, wiping the tears away and slipping into the role of Black Widow, "but I have to do this." She put her hand on the fist shape dent. I love you. She ran off to find Ivan and Alexi and end this.

* * *

His shoulder hurt. The door wasn't built to withstand the assault of a super soldier, but it was designed to hold back several frozen carcasses of pigs and cows in rough seas. It was proving harder to bust open that he had thought. "Damn." Steve rubbed his shoulder, studying the dent in the metal. The hanging slabs of meat prevented him from going back further, the slick icy metal and the gentle pitch and roll of the ship made it difficult for him to build up any momentum and the cold was seeping into his bones drawing forth the memories of crashing the Valkyrie into the ice. Yet, he persisted. I'm not letting you face this alone, Natasha. He backed up, puffing his cheeks out in a quick breath and charged at the door. He leapt a little just before hitting the door to add an extra bit of oomph and slammed into the door with a shuddering thud. "Damn it," he gasped, slumping to his knees. He had to get out of here. He wished he had his shield too. But he was stuck in a fucking freezer and didn't have his shield. He stood up again pushed against the dent, groaning as he tried to push the door off its hinges. It squeaked. Gasping, he stopped, looking at the hinges before he backed up against and charged. The door shuddered, the hinges started to give way a little bit more.

He smirked, pleased with himself. Then he heard voices. Well this complicates things. He punched the door, smirking as he heard them mutter about the state of the door. He backed up, entering the shadows and hiding behind the meat.

" _Vidkryy tse. Vidkryy tse._ " The door opened with a groan, the first man appeared in the doorway with a flashlight and a baton. " _Allo?_ " The meat swung, creaking on their hooks. He waited, watching. He didn't know how many were out on the other side of the door, what — if any — they carried. He needed surprise and he needed to bust that door off. It all came down to timing. This also would be easier if he wasn't getting a headache from being sea sick. " _Allo?_ " the man called again.

The ship pitched towards port, and he charged, boots thudding against the deck. He barreled into the stunned man and the door (which was starting to swing open) and took it completely off its hinges. A crash, many groans and screams of pain, the red lights glaring down upon him, blood trickling from beneath the door. He tried to not feel too guilty about killing these men, but for all he knew they could be working for Ivan. He stood, looking at the two remaining men, who looked at him with stunned surprise. "Fellas." He rubbed at his lip and struck. Grabbing the nearest man by the wrist and yanking him in close. He rammed his head into the man's nose as his knee came up to punch him in the diaphragm. He kicked out, sending the man into his scrambling fellow and into the bulkhead on the other side of reefer deck. The metal shuddered at the force, the men groaning in pain. He looked around, no one else.

He scrambled up the ladder, popping up onto the next deck and pushing himself up over the lip of the hatch. He didn't know where Natasha was, they had gone silent for the mission. He didn't have time to think about it, he had to move. He made a right, running forward along the starboard passageway, and stopped a little bit pass midship. To his left was door. He grabbed the lever and yanked up, opening the door and entering a chilled room with blue lights. He stepped inside, the decking was different here by the sound of his footsteps. It looked to be a command center, though gutted and replaced with shelving along the bulkheads. In the center of the room was Natasha, tied to a chair.

For a moment he couldn't believe she had gotten herself captured, for a moment he didn't want to believe she was unable to escape. " _Posmotri Natalia, posmotri, kto prishel prisoyedinit'sya k nam._ "

"Steve," Natasha said, as some unseen hand yanked her head back her hair, so she could look at him. His gut twisted in fear and worry. "Run!"

The door behind him squeaked close, another squeak locking the mechanical dogs firmly into place. He turned in time to see a punch coming towards his face. He crossed his arms in front of his face and kicked out at his attacker. The Red Guardian slammed into the door, popping it open. He ran towards Natasha but stopped when he saw the glint of a pistol against her skull. "Should've listened to Natalia," the man, Ivan, said.

He froze, staring at the situation. The Red Guardian pounced then, grabbing him by the shoulders and flinging him across the room. He grunted as he hit the bulkhead, books and binders crashing down around him. "This is great Captain America? America's heroic super soldier?" the Red Guardian spat at his feet. "No challenge. Pathetic."

He groaned, pushing away the books and binders, getting to his feet. He felt battered. He sucked in a breath, letting it out in a rush as he brought his fists to guard. "I can do this all day."

The Red Guardian snarled. "We will see." The man drew his thumb across his throat and threw a punch. Steve did too, and for a moment they were in a stalemate, each one holding back the other's punch. He reacted first, jamming his head into the Red Guardian's face, his foot kicking his opponent in the knee. The attack sent him reeling back, allowing Steve to duck into his guard and deliver a mean left hook into the Red Guardian's side.

The man recovered, and they bobbed and weaved, throwing punches and jabs. The Red Guardian hit hard, not as hard as the Skull (thankfully the Red Guardian lacked the Red Skull's tesseract weapons), but he would feel the ache in a few hours before the serum healed the damage. But the man fought in a similar style to Natasha. He stepped back, dropping low to kick the man's feet out from under him, but he must've suspected the gambit for he jumped his leg. Steve rolled, avoiding the punch, but a new opportunity presented itself. He slammed his elbow into the Red Guardian's spine, the man yelping in surprise as he went down. He scrambled over to him, latching on like a predatory insect. He applied pressure to the Russian's throat, legs wrapped around his arms and waist. He ignored the Red Guardian's fingers clawing into his arms and focused on forcing the man to submit.

"Steve…" Natasha said, "don't… don't hurt him."

 _He's not the kind you save. He's the kind you stop._ Bucky. The helicarrier, bullet wounds and pain, fire and one last targeting card to lock into place otherwise so many people were going to die and he couldn't let that happen nor could he kill Bucky, his best friend since childhood, who he saw fall to his death from the train, who was now a mindless assassin trying to kill him. He saved him, he saved Bucky even though he should have stopped him, should have ended him so he wouldn't hurt anymore innocent people. But it was _Bucky_.

It took a moment, that is all it ever takes to turn the tide of battle. The Red Guardian's fist met his jaw, snapping his head back and his hold on the Russian's throat slackened enough for him to break it. "Damn," he muttered as he scrambled to his feet, grunting when the Red Guardian kicked him in the stomach. He moved to the side, grabbing the man's foot and twisted, but the Red Guardian spun with it and kicked him in the face.

"No, Alexi! Stop it! Don't hurt him!" Natasha screamed, yelping when Ivan yanked her hair again. "Steve!"

He glanced at Natasha and the Red Guardian punched him in the face, kicked him in the stomach and grabbed his throat. He yawped, the Red Guardian lifting him up by his throat, prying at Alexi's crushing fingers. "Na—" he gasped out just before the Red Guardian slammed his fist into his face, over and over and over again — _You. Are. My. Mission!_ — before tossing him into the center of the room. He groaned, head spinning with pain, one eye was starting to swell shut, he tasted blood in his mouth.

"If you know what's good for you," Ivan said, his voice a raspy drawl, "you'd stay down."

He spat blood onto the deck, as he pushed himself up to his knees. "I told you," he said, sparing Ivan a glance. "I can do this all day."

"Big talk," Alexi taunted. "For a dead man."

"Not dead yet." He pushed himself to his feet. "And I don't plan die today either."

Alexi roared and charged at him, colliding into his shoulder. He punched at the Red Guardian's sides as Alexi pushed him back, slamming his knee in to the man's sternum to dislodge him (the crack of bone was sickeningly satisfying). He got his second wind, fighting back and gaining ground. It caught Alexi off guard, and he for a moment thought he may win this fight. The ship hit a large swell, the deck pitching and rolling starboard and aft. Both he and Alexi lost their footing for a moment, Natasha yelped in surprised as Ivan yanked on her hair to steady himself. The gun went off, a loud crash from something heavy colliding with something unmoveable, and he felt a sharp pain in calf.

Alexi was the first to recover and stuck, jabbing him in gut at a dizzying speed, kicking his injured leg and sending him to the ground. Natasha came running towards him, somehow, she had freed herself from her chair when it toppled over. He groaned when her weight fell on top of him, her arms snaking around his head to protect him.

"Alexi, stop," she said. The Red Guardian hesitated, he struggled to get Natasha off him, this was his chance, he could win. "Shh, Steve, stay down. Don't… you can't win."

"Nat, I—" he hurt. The physical pain was on pare with the pain he felt after he defeated Tony, the emotional pain… well, it was worse than any he had felt (save for crashing into the ice and leaving Peggy behind to mourn). He groaned, managing to roll onto his back, the light haloed Natasha's head, he could see tear tracks and feel her hands on his face, caring and tender. Alexi stalking closer, looming in the shadows over Natasha.

"Stand down, Red Guardian," Ivan said.

Alexi withdrew, the shadows filling in and he closed his eyes allowing Natasha's touch to sooth his hurts. "Nat…"

"Steve?" she whispered, he could feel her hands shake against his face, a few of her tears falling onto his cheeks, the shadows over her head thickened, blurring at the edges of his vision.

"Hey… it's okay," he said, a smile tugging at his lips, "where else am I gonna get a view like this?" His vision swam and all he saw next was darkness, all he knew after was nothingness.

* * *

 **I'm forever salty that Redwing in the MCU is a damn drone and not an actual fucking bird. Sam has super powers. He can fucking ken with birds. Gimme my bird talking Falcon Marvel!**

 **Once again, I've taken, used and abused comic (and MCU) canon in certain places.**

 **I hate writing fight scenes.**

 **So uh… the only ship I've been on is a destroyer… yeah…**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**


	25. My Heart is Broken

**MCU (c) Marvel**

* * *

 _My heart is broken. Sweet sleep, my dark angel, deliver us from sorrow's hold or from my hard heart. I can't go on living this way, but I can't go back the way I came. Shamed of this fear that I will never find a way to heal my soul, and I will wander 'til the end of time… half a life without you. My heart is broken. Sweet sleep, my dark angel, deliver us, change, open your eyes to the light! I denied it all so long, oh so long. Say goodbye, goodbye._ _—_ _Evanescence_

* * *

Numb.

Numb. That was all she felt. Cold, empty, unyielding numbness. The pitch and roll of the ship in the farthest reaches of her mind. The steady tattoo of her heart, loud in her ears; her hands shook. They said the first stage of grief was denial. Staring at Steve's pale lifeless face, his eyes closed as if he was asleep, Natasha understood why they said that. Tears stung the corners of her eyes and she placed her hand on his cheek, rough due to his beard beneath her palm. A sob wanted to break free, her chest tight and aching. The ship took a large swell, the shelves groaning and old equipment straining with a tired groan. Steve's body began to slide on the downslope. A gasp escaped her throat and she flung herself on top of him; shivers running down her body. "No," she breathed out, her throat tight, the desire to cry was overwhelming, but she stamped it down. She would _not_ let Alexi and Ivan see her tears. She pillowed her head on Steve's still chest, eyes drifting close as she grabbed his hand.

A sudden chill of shock shivered down her spine which blossomed in her breast as hope. Fear stilled her though, realizing that if Alexi or Ivan discovered what she just learned — no, she refused to walk down that path of thought. Ivan walked over to her and lifted her chin up with a finger. She glared at him, sinking deep into her training. The void within her was calm and dark and cool. This numbness was comforting and familiar, the murderous cold embraced her, and she schooled her expression into an impassive façade as she fixed her former handler with an icy glower. "I remember the last time you felt this," Ivan whispered, his voice soft as fallen snow and just as cold. She didn't reply. "You were sobbing at the base of the pod." He shook his head. "I knew then that you'd be trouble. For so long you were so good, my best one. My Black Widow."

She swallowed. She had founded where they kept Bucky, a half-formed rescue plan in her head, believing that they kept him locked up in a cage. Her hopes of saving him and running away shattered when she saw him frozen in that cryo pod. Lukin had called Ivan, and he subjected her to some unpleasant reeducation. Lukin had taken one man she loved, Ivan had stolen another, but neither would not get Steve. Steve had a chance. "Sorry I disappointed you," she said.

"No," Ivan said, stroking her cheek. "No, Natalia, you never disappointed me. Only saddened. I gave you everything, brought you to Madame B, to the Red Room. We made you into who you are." He gave her a fatherly smile. "A poor girl living on the streets of Volgograd and gave her a home."

"I had a home."

Ivan snorted as he stood. "Your grandmother was more dead than alive by the time I sent my agents in the KGB to fetch you." He snapped his fingers and she felt Alexi's strong hands yank her by her shoulders. She didn't protest as he slipped handcuffs on her; the metal cold against her skin. Grunting as Alexi hauled her to her feet, she spared a single glance for Steve. "Don't worry about him," he said. "I have use for the one success of Dr. Erskine's formula."

"What?" She arched a brow, letting the rage coil in the pit of her stomach. A dragon awaiting its opportune moment to strike. "Are you going to harvest his organs."

"Tissue samples, blood samples, everything and anything we need to unlock Erskine's formula." Ivan nudged Steve's body with a toe. "It's all he's good for now." He gave a derisive snort. "World's greatest soldier."

"Too bad for you," she said, "I read the SSR files on Erskine's formula. He feared that someone would try to kill any successful test subject to reverse engineer the formula, so he developed a failsafe." She smirked. "It's a pity really. Spending all that effort to just kill him and not get anything out of it. That's what I'd call a zero-sum."

Ivan slapped her. "I think you need another lesson in obedience, Natalia," he said. "Now what is this failsafe?" She flexed her jaw, finding nothing broken but the taste of blood in her mouth and stared her handler down. He nodded, and Alexi yanked her head back by her hair. "Tell me Natalia, what do you know?"

She gasped, staring half at the overhead and half at Alexi. Her mouth worked but no sound came out. Truth was, she never read anything about a failsafe in Erskine's formula in the case of death. People had been trying to crack the riddle that was Steve Rogers for over seventy years, as far as she knew, nobody had gotten close. He was the one and only super soldier created from Erskine's formula.

It was a risk, but she had to protect Steve. Ivan taught her to lie. By bringing her into the Red Room, he made her who she was. Allowed her to become Black Widow, which lead to Clint rescuing her, and in turn meeting Steve. It was sick twisted way of looking at it, but if it wasn't for Ivan taking an interest in an almost-orphan girl that had dared to pick the wrong pocket one cold December day, she would have never met (and fallen in love with) Steve. This is a test of my abilities. I have to do it. To protect Steve and complete my mission. Alexi's grip tightened in her hair, a cry escaped her throat. "Th-The failsafe—" she gasped. "Erskine… the formula reverses… itself upon death. Three hours after… effects start."

"So, you're telling me," Ivan said, "that by killing Captain America, his secrets die with him?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," she said, trying to wiggle free of Alexi's grip on her hair. "You may have killed Steve, may have taken away our best asset but in the end, you lose."

Ivan glared, huffing as he pulled out a gun and aimed it at Steve's head. She yanked her head again, pulling free of Alexi's grip at last. "I think you're lying," Ivan said. She kept her face impassive.

"Why would I lie?"

"Don't be so naïve Natalia, to think that just because I'm an old man I have lost my touch." He cocked the gun. "Are you lying about the failsafe."

"No." She pressed her tongue between her back molars to keep her mask in place as she watched Ivan press the muzzle of the gun against Steve's temple.

"I think you're lying about something."

"I have no reason to lie to you, Ivan. You killed Captain America and recaptured me. You have what you want." She gave him a little smirk. "You lured me here, and you intend for me to do what I'm best at. Killing. You want me to kill the Russian president and the American president and pin the blame on the two opposite sides." She chuckled. "Clever. Let Russia and America tear itself apart and you'll seize control in the shadows."

"I see you read my reports before we found you," Ivan said. "But you're wrong." He holstered the gun, and kicked Steve in the side, she flinched. He stepped over Steve and took her by the bicep. "Come," he said, giving her a tug. She glared, though complied. She glanced over her shoulder watching Alexi scoop up Steve and sling him over his shoulder. Her ex-husband caught her watching and glared at her. She frowned and fixed her gaze ahead, walking behind Ivan.

* * *

For the remainder of the voyage, Ivan held her in a small space that was big enough for a pull-down wall desk, a bookshelf and two chairs. A whistle sounded, the crew scrambling to dock the ship at the Crimean port. The door creaked open, Alexi stepped in. His large frame dwarfing her and the room. "Alexi."

"Natalia," he said and sat down in the other chair. It creaked, protesting his weight. "Been a long time."

"Has it?" she shifted, it hurt sitting in a chair with her hands cuffed. She shivered a bit, the metal of the ship provided no insulation, trying to roll her shoulders and relieve the ache in her muscles, trying not to think about Steve. "How did you get that bloodied nose?" she asked, noticing the blood beneath Alexi's nose.

"None of your business," he growled, rubbing at the blood, dislodging the dried reddish flakes. She could hear the tugboats pushing against the ship. The creaks and groans of the metal, the tugs and the lines maneuvering the bulky ship into place. Alexi watched her, it unnerved her though, the sad look in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said his voice soft and tender like how she remembered it. Her gaze remained unwavering and he glanced down at his hands. "They… they told me—" he stopped, shaking his head. "So many lies Natalia. So many. I just… I just wanted to serve my country. I love Russia. I thought I was doing the right thing. What they told me… what they had me do… Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Natalia, what I did—"

"Did you even loved me?" she asked, watching as his head jerked up at the question. A bright indignant fire blazed in his brown eyes — eyes she once found herself getting lost in. "Well?"

" _Solnishko_ ," he said, "I couldn't… you don't understand, I couldn't."

She rolled her eyes. "We always have choices, Alexi." The intercom sounded, the mooring successful and the unloading process could begin. She sighed, trying to crack her spine. "They told me you were dead." She held his gaze. "Ivan came to my apartment and told me you were dead."

"Oh, Natalia, I'm—"

"Don't." She fixed him with a glare. "Just don't. If you really felt like that, you would have done something. Instead, I… I…" she stopped, shaking her head. "It doesn't matter anymore. None of it does. What we had, what we were. It doesn't matter."

Alexi growled, banging his fist against the wall. It took all her willpower not to flinched, though she noted his bloodied knuckles. The wounds look fresh… well, fresher than the ones earlier. She wasn't sure how fast Alexi healed. Steve's cuts and scrapes closed within hours, sometimes even minutes depending on how bad they were. "It matters to me, Natalia."

"It does?" she cocked a brow. He stood up, using his increased height and bulk to tower over her. Steve had used his height and mass to his advantage a few times to intimate people into talking, he tried to do it once with her in a hospital in DC. Though she didn't show it, Alexi leering over her scared her, because the difference between Alexi and Steve was that she _knew_ Steve would never hurt. She had no faith in Alexi holding himself back if pushed to a boiling point. "Why does it matter to you about how I felt?"

He growled and punched the dented wall again, the metal groaned, and she flinched despite herself. Alexi heaved in breathes like an enraged bull, causing her to feel small and defenseless. " _Chert_ , Natalia." His expression was torn between what he felt for her and whatever his training had ingrained into him. The thing was, she knew that Alexi had cracks in his conditioning. It was easier to condition a child — a mind so innocent and malleable — than an adult's mind, which was set and developed. "You… why him?"

She furrowed her brow; not sure what Alexi was getting at. "Who?" she asked, thinking it was better to play dumb and give Alexi enough slack to hang himself.

"You know who!" Alexi snarled, caging her in. She leaned back against the chair, gaze never leaving his. His breath stank of whatever he last ate, a hint of vodka and his toothpaste. A few of the tiny capillaries in his sclera had burst open, dying the white a horrid pinkish color. "That American you were with! The one that _thought_ he could defeat me."

Steve, oh God what has Alexi done to Steve? She controlled her pupil dilation, her breathing and heart rate. "What about him?" she asked, hoping her voice sounded dismissive. "He was nothing to me, just my partner."

"Don't fucking lie to me, Natalia!" Alexi growled, shaking the chair. She swallowed, finding the void of calm within her mind. "He was more than just a partner to you! You begged for me to not hurt him. Then you flung yourself over him, _protecting him_."

She narrowed her eyes. "And if I did? What of it? Need I remind you I thought you were _dead_ ," she said.

"Do you love him? Do you love this Captain America?"

The ship was silent, save for the lapping of waves, muted by the metal. Her pulse thundered in her ears, a rapid tattoo that she feared Alexi heard as well. She concentrated on keeping it at her resting heartrate, her breathing even, her pupils normal. She mustn't give anything away. If Alexi figured out what Steve meant to her, he'd tell Ivan and Ivan would use that information to break her. "No." She was glad Steve was dead, for he'd never have to hear her say these horrid bitter lies. "No, I don't love him."

Alexi snarled, yanking her hair back, exposing her throat. She gasped, thrashing her head back and forth, trying to break free. His lips closed over her pulse point, his hot moist breath fanning against her skin. She whimpered. "Alexi." He kissed her pulse point again and looked into her eyes. Jealous passion burned in those brown eyes of his; she found it darkly alluring, drawing her in and destroying her. His lips — hot, wet, demanding — covered hers, coaxing her to kiss back.

He pulled away, just enough to speak. "I think you're lying _solnishko_ ," he growled. He ran his other hand down her throat, sending shivers along her spine. "Tell me the truth, Natalia. Make this easy for—"

She kicked him in the groin, pulled her hair free and smashed the frontal bone of her skull into Alexi's nose. He yowled, staggering back, allowing her to get both her feet between him and push. He fell into the opposite wall with a clatter. She grimaced as she popped her thumbs out and wiggled out of the cuffs. "I don't easy, Alexi" — she popped her thumbs back into place, thanking the healing factor of her serum for quick recovery — "you should've known that." She slammed her wrist against his throat, shocking him with her bite. He jerked and spazzed, spittle bubbling out of his mouth. She pulled away and opened the door, looking around and trying to orient herself. She looked at the tack number above the door she just left and then ran forward, climbing the ladder up to the main deck, going forward until she reached midships and climbed another ladder to find the airlock to the outside.

She grumbled as she had to close one door, then opened the other. She closed the second door behind, dodging and weaving through the workmen topside, heading towards the gangway that lead to the dock. She'll radio Sam once she was safe, tell him what happened to Steve and they'll work out their contingency plan. She swore when she saw Ivan on the other side of the quarter deck. She decided she'll end this now, she charged her bites and ran at him, ignoring the malicious smirk on Ivan's face smug wrinkled face. " _Soyuz_ ," he said as she threw her punch.

What? Her eyes widened, rolling back into her head as she went limp and fell to the ground. What… what the hell… Ivan… you… bastard…

"Poor Natalia," he said as she began to lose consciousness. "Did you really think I didn't have a contingency plan?"

Damn… you…

* * *

She came to hours later, bound to a stainless-steel table, a naked bulb overhead casting a harsh glare on the shiny metallic surface of the table. The walls were brick, painted grey with a clock situated behind her; the cold floor, concrete. Across from her was a mirror-window and to her left was a heavy steel door. "Damn," she grumbled and jerked her hands, but whomever bound her had gotten smart and used cuffs designed to hold a super soldier. Twisting, she tried to see the clock but was unable to, so she sat there, waiting for someone to come in.

She didn't have to wait long, the door screeched open and Ivan walked in, a smug smile on his face. He closed the door and walked over to her. "Good to see you wake."

"Clever trick." She glared at him.

"A deactivation word, implanted into your mind shortly after you came to the Red Room. In case you ever… bucked against your training or assignments." Ivan walked to one of the corners she couldn't see and dragged a chair over to her. He sat on her left-hand side. "One-time use."

"What do you want?" she asked. "Why am I here? If you don't want me to kill the President of the United States and the President of Russia, then—"

"Oh, I'll kill them" — the smile he gave her was malicious — "you won't pull the trigger. I have to get two countries to _hate_ each other, hate all the other stands for."

"That'll never happen," she said, "the US and Russia may not be allies, but they both aren't stupid enough to go to war either each other."

"I trained you in manipulation, Natalia," Ivan said, "do you really think I will be unable to pull this off? People rally to symbols. And if those symbols are tarnished, broken… the disillusion masses _will_ rebel against the power behind those symbols."

"What? You'll hijack Iron Man's suit and get him to kill the Russian President?" she snorted. Nobody could hack Tony's suit. FRIDAY wasn't JARVIS, but the AI was still a product of Tony Stark, and the only thing she came across that was smart enough to hack Tony Stark's tech was Ultron. A machine he created.

"Now there's a thought," he chuckled, the sound was like worms wriggling down her body. She shivered, looking away. "But no," he said, patting her hand. "I have something else in mind."

She snarled. "I'm not the same person you remember, Ivan. I have my own life. I'm not your pawn anymore."

"Children," Ivan said, getting up and pacing before her. "So ungrateful, especially daughters." He stopped in front of her, cupping her chin in his gnarled hand. His skin was rough and paper-like. She spat in his face and his punishment was swift; the slap stung across her cheek. "Disrespectful too."

"I am _not_ your pawn, Ivan. I haven't been your pawn for years."

"That is where you're wrong, Natalia," Ivan said. "I saved you when you were a girl, I made you into who you are." He walked behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders and leaning in close. "I _own_ you, Natalia. No matter how long you've been away from me, how far you run, how many times you tell yourself you have atoned for all the blood on your hands" — he ran his hands down her arms and sides. She shuddered, biting her tongue to keep the pathetic whimper at bay. His laugh was hot and sinister to her ears. — "I _own_ you."

"I'm not afraid of my past."

"Really?" he pulled away from her, returning to the position in front of her, leaning in close so she was unable to turn her head away. "Then why did you lock your lover in a meat freezer?"

"He's not my lover."

"Come now, Natalia, do you really think I'm that stupid to not realize what that American meant to you? The way you beg and pleaded for Alexi to spare him, the way you flung yourself over his body? How you _clung_ to his corpse."

"I care about him, yes, he was my partner. A friend from work."

"Your naïveté surprises me." He shrugged. "But then what do I expect after a decade in America. It's made you soft. Black Widow doesn't have friends. Black Widow doesn't love. Black Widow doesn't have attachments. What does the Black Widow have Natalia, hmm? Tell me, what does the Black Widow have?"

She hung her head, clenching her hands as best she could with them bound to the table. She didn't want to say it, didn't want to reaffirm Ivan's twisted control over her. Throughout her childhood she had heard this mantra. Been told over and over again what the Black Widow has, made to parrot it like good little robots. "…targets…" she licked her lips, sweat beading at her hairline. "The Black Widow only has targets."

He patted her cheek. "Good girl Natalia, I knew there was my good girl in there some—" he yelped as she sank her teeth into his thumb. He grabbed her hair and slammed her hand against the desk to dislodge her. She groaned, letting go, blood beading at her hairline. She ran her tongue along the edge of her upper teeth, a fierce look in her eyes. He pulled out a handkerchief and wrapped his thumb. "You try my patience, Natalia."

"I told you, I'm not your pawn."

He shrugged. "Do you really hate me that much? After everything I did for you?" he asked, returning to his chair. "Do you remember how I found you?"

"What do you want from me if I'm not to be reprogrammed into your perfect assassin?"

"Oh you will be reprogrammed, just not right away." He leaned back in the chair. "Alexi was in a state."

"He left himself open for that. He was always too impatient when his temper was up." She shifted in the chair. "He forgot who he was dealing with."

"So have you. But it's good to know he still wants you." Ivan leaned forward. "Tell me has the American defiled you?"

"Oh, so now its defiled?" she looked at her former handler. "And the Red Room's graduation ceremony? What was that? A rite of passage?"

"If you want to look at it that way." The shrug he did infuriated her.

"You took my ability to choose my own path away from me!" she snarled. The table chattered as she tried to get at Ivan, but with her hands bound to the table she was powerless. Her chest rose and fell, her heart pounded against her ribs. "I… I wanted a future, with children in it."

"Come now, Natalia," he said, wiping a few stray tears from her cheeks, she flinched at his touch. "You and I both knew, children were never in your future."

"Don't touch me."

"Always so melodramatic." He shook his head and walked over to the mirror. "Just like him." He twisted a knob by the mirror. A man grunted against restraints designed to contain him, heavy breathing and rattling chains. "Like someone else I know."

She froze, eyes widening. "Ivan, you bastard," she said, allowing her cold rage to fill her up, give her comfort and strength. If she had listened to Steve, had gone after Ivan with him by her side, then maybe she wouldn't be in this situation. Me and my damn stubbornness. "What have you done?"

Ivan didn't reply, instead he turned up the volume on the speaker. Static sounded for a moment before a familiar voice was heard. " _Natasha? Natasha? Where is she? Where is Natasha? Where's Natasha!_ "

Ivan hit another switch, the light came on in between the planes of glass. "One-way mirrors. You can see him, but he can see you."

Her lip trembled at the sight. The prisoner in the other room, the sound of his voice calling for her, demanding to know where she was. "Let him go, Ivan. He has no part to play in this," she said, grabbing what was left of her anger and finding that void of calm again. "This is between you and me."

He pulled out a trinket from his pocket. "This is the ring he gave you, no?" She struggled to remain impassive, but she should have known it was a fool's errand to try and outwit the man that created the Red Room, the man that trained her. "You were to be his bride, were you not?" The smirk on his face, twisted his features, reminding her of a demon. "Did you really think you could leave this world, Natalia? Start a _family_?" He pocketed her engagement ring again. He walked to her and lifted her chin up, allowing her to look into his cruel, cruel eyes. "Do you remember what I said about symbols? How people will lose faith in symbols if those symbols are tarnished?"

"No." She yanked her chin free, the puzzle pieces falling into place. "No, you wouldn't dare!"

He laughed as he walked back to the little speaker and command box by the one-way mirror. "Why don't you tell him, Natalia. Tell him what awaits him, what I will do to him. Tell him how you became Black Widow. Tell him your truth." He hit a button.

* * *

 **Job hunting is a pain. I hate it. I suffer from akrasia (** **the state of mind in which someone acts against their better judgment through weakness of will). So yeah, there's that. And uh… I splurged on Cap comics. So, that got some inspiration back. Finally figured out how to do this story without answering everyone's question from the last chapter. I mean,** _ **honestly**_ **this is set before Infinity War. I'm assuming ya'll have seen Infinity War, right?**

 **Anyway, the next two chapters we'll delve into Natasha's past. I've been looking forward to writing these chapters for a long time. They were chapters I've had planned since chapter 3. Yes, Alexi was always supposed to return near the end, since I teased him in chapter 3. I've been planning this for a long time.**

 **So, the failsafe was a little thing I threw from reading Brubaker's The Death of Captain America storyline, in which Steve dies and the serum "de-ages" him. The Soyuz is another thing I picked up from the same storyline. Bucky has a shut off word (Sputnik), which makes him go unconscious. One time use. Seeing as Natasha is trained by the Russians and was subjected to her own brand of brainwashing, it makes sense they have a shut off word. Soyuz was the flight that Yuri Gagarian was back up to.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**


	26. Angels

**MCU (c) Marvel**

* * *

 _Sparkling angel I believed you were my savior in my time of need. Blinded by faith, I couldn't hear all the whispers, the warnings to clear. I see the angels, I'll lead them to your door. There's no escape now, no mercy no more. No remorse cause, I still remember the smile when you tore me apart. You took my heart, deceived me right from the start. You showed me dreams, I wish they would turn into real. You broke the promise and made me realize it was all just a lie._ _—_ _Within Temptation_

* * *

Human suffering never phased her; she grew up with it all around her and the inhumanity of the human creature was something she had come to expect from everyone she had ever come across. It made her numb to a lot of the terrible things she had to do as a spy for the Red Room, as a Shield agent, even as an Avenger. People said she was heartless, an ice queen, apathetic. Truth was all those monikers were lies. She did care, it did hurt her and haunt her nightmares. Unlike most people though, she didn't let it affect her outward appearance. An apologetic smile here, a solemn nod there, just enough to convince whomever was speaking to her that she too, had a heart and cared about the suffering of innocents (which she did). But she was also pragmatic and understood that no matter how hard you tried, you can't save everyone, can't stop everyone from suffering.

Yet, as she sat there bound to that horrid stainless-steel table, listening to Ivan goad her into spilling her past; her world narrowed to the man in the other cell. The tarnished silver star, the grimy uniform, the disheveled blond hair and scruff on his cheeks. Those depthless blue eyes of his, now clouded with pain and fear — not for himself, no, Steve never worried about himself — for her. She heard his ragged breathing. " _Where's… where's Natasha?_ " Steve's suffering was a cold cruel knife in her heart, twisting bit by bit until she bled out. She hung her head, choking back a cry.

"Tell him Natalia," Ivan said, his voice soft as down. "Tell him about the woman he's going to marry."

" _Natasha? Natasha? Are you there, Natasha?_ " Steve's voice rasped through the silence of her cell. Her hatred for Ivan was hot and fresh as spilt blood. She trembled, staring at her knees. " _Natasha?_ "

"Please, Ivan," she whispered. Reduced to begging, are we? O, how you have fallen Black Widow, O, how you've fallen. The tears stung her eyes, she bit her lip and struggled to reclaim the calm void of emotionlessness within her. Her training ground into her to never have attachments, connections too other people; someone could manipulate your attachments, a weak link within the armour. And Ivan was a sadistic bastard that took sick delight in torture and wiggling the knife ever deeper beneath that weak link until his victim broke. "Please." She looked up at her former handler. "Let me speak to him." She licked her lips, tasting the salt from her tears, cracked delicate skin. "Then I'll talk."

The sound of Steve's breathing, her own heartbeat in her ears, the ticking of the clock behind her; those sounds felt like an itch she couldn't scratch, and it drove her mad. The silence aggravating. The waiting made her skin crawl. "You may speak to him, for five minutes."

Her heart sank. Ivan came over and unlocked her manacles and grabbed her by the bicep, dragging her to her feet and into the other room. She allowed him to manhandle her, tossing her into Steve's cell. Scrambling, she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding back her sob as he nuzzled the pale expanse of her throat, his dry lips kissing her skin; she ran her fingers through his hair. "Nat… Nat…" he murmured, breath hot and dry against her skin.

"Shh, don't speak Steve, listen. Listen to me."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Natasha—"

"No, don't—" she mewed softly as he sucked on her throat.

"I wanna touch ya, feel ya… Nat. Oh, God Nat." He nuzzled her neck. It broke her heart, seeing him like this, battered and broken. She had no idea how long she'd been out, if they kept her drugged and sedated after her shut down word wore off. How long they tortured Steve. His brow was damp with sweat, pupils dilated, and skin clammy. There was a mechanical hiss and Steve jerked, a hoarse cry escaping his throat and he strained against his manacles. He coughed, wet and hoarse. "Nat, don't feel too good."

It was then she noticed that the cuts and bruises on his face weren't healing as they should. She touched one and he flinched. "Steve," she whispered. Whatever those manacles injected into him was dampening the effects of his serum, allowing whatever drug they been giving him to take effect. "Don't worry, everything will be okay."

"Gotta… gotta…" he shook his head, trying to clear it. "Bird… bird… knows… Jesus…" he squeezed his eyes. "Don't feel too good, Nat."

"I know, Steve, I know. Now, listen, listen to me Steve," she said, taking his head in her hands and forcing him to look at her. It took him a moment or two to focus on her, eyes lazing about until they settled on her face. "I love you. Whatever they are doing to you, whatever you hear me say, remember: I love you."

"Okay."

"And when we get home, we'll get married. Okay?"

"Okay." His head slumped, chin resting against his chest. "Tell Peggy… Tell Peggy I'm sorry, I missed our dance."

It broke her heart to hear that. Broke her heart to realize he was so out of it, that the drugs Ivan had forced into him system had scrambled his brain enough that he was delirious. She kissed him, long and deep until Ivan hauled her away. "I love you, Steve. Remember that, remember that I love you."

His head lolled as her hands slipped away from him. Groaning, he looked up at her. "Natasha?" A spark of clarity shown in his eyes as he pulled against his bonds. "Natasha!" he shouted. She watched as the manacles gave an electrical whine and the zapping sound of electricity echoed in the room, mingling with Steve's screams. He slumped forward. "Natasha…"

She pulled against Ivan's grip. "Break free and I'll have those manacles zap him until his heart gives out," Ivan whispered. She swallowed, body going limp as her handler dragged her out the door and back into her own cell. He bound her again to the table, went to the mirror and turned the speaker on. "Captain Rogers," he said, sounding pleasant and cordial.

" _Y-Yes?_ " Steve's voice echoed in her cell, it sounded painful and ragged. She closed her eyes, not wanting to do this. But a deal's a deal, you know that. She bit her lip, hoping that Steve will still love her, still _want_ her after she told him her story, laid her past bare for him hear.

"Are you sure he's going to remember it?" she asked. "He's drugged, I'm surprised you've managed that."

"Dr. Erskine's formula is brilliant," Ivan agreed, "but when the Soviets developed their own, they realized they needed to _control_ their soldiers. Unlike Erskine who was looking to make a weak man great, Russia was looking to make strong men greater."

"So they developed a suppressor. I'm surprised it works on Steve," she said. Her handler shrugged.

"It works enough. Designed to suppress a weaker version of the serum he has, he needs hourly injections. The ketamine keeps him compliant though. But no, he'll remember every word you tell him. I'll make sure of that."

I'm sure you will. "I'm ready," she said, closing her eyes and thought back to the beginning of how she became Black Widow. "Steve, I'm going to tell you how I became the woman you know. It's a sad story, a painful story, but it's one you should hear. You already know this, but I'll repeat it anyway. My full name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. I was born on a snow day, November 21, 1984 to Alian and his second wife Katerina." She licked her lips, glanced at Ivan and continued. "I was born in Volgograd, and I lived there until I was eight years old…

* * *

The cold defined Russia. Her cold, harsh winters that had protected her people from would be conquerors like Hitler and Napoléon. Her cold-hearted leaders that worked her people to the bone. And the people themselves, cold and unwelcoming to strangers they did not know or trust. Russia was cold, her people were cold, bitter and unhappy. Life was hard, and the hardships defined them, they wore their struggles with a sense of pride or a badge of honor. Her father wore their struggles just the same, and she did too. She sat in the shadows of the alleyway, the richer section of Volgograd had nice buildings, clean streets and sleek cars. It felt bright, upbeat, lively. She watched the people go by, wondering about them, looking for the best mark. The bumbling ones were the best, women too. People never paid attention as they walked about, it was something that worked to her advantage.

The bus rumbled passed her alley, the work day had just ended, she could hear the whistles from the factories in the distance. Snow drifted down in lazy zigzags, the slush had soaked through her shoes. She squatted, her back pressed against the wall, as she watched the few pedestrians increase as people hurried home from work. She tugged her scarf from her nose, tucking it around her throat and shifting her hat back to expose some of her red hair. She slipped into the crowd like an assassin's dagger between ribs, unnoticed and painless. She followed the swell of the crowd in the late afternoon's gloomy sunlight. It was January, night was already falling, and the sun had dipped behind the buildings. She reached out with nimble delicate fingers, slipping into pockets, pulling out wallets, slipping watches and bracelets from wrists and melting out of the crowd with practice ease into the neck alley she came across. A smirk crossed her lips, her coat pockets laden with stolen items. She pulled out one of her pilfered watches and glanced at the time, if she hurried she'd get to the pawnshop before it closed. Grinning, she slipped the stolen watch back into her pocket and scampered off down the alley.

The pawnshop was two streets over from the apartment in which she lived with her father and grandmother. It was the poor district, with gangs and criminals, the police didn't come here often. The rule of law was the rule of the mafia. People kept their head down, ignored each other's problems and hoped that this new president fixed things for them. They had little hope. She kept both eyes open, head on a swivel as she skipped and twirled along the icy sidewalk, trying to mimic the moves of the ballerinas she saw once on tv. She reached the pawnshop with its iron barred windows, and pushed the heavy door open, the bell chiming overhead.

It stank of sweat and smoke and vodka. The sultry voice of some singer crooned over the speakers and an old black and white tv fritzed and hissed as it tried to pick up any tv single. The man behind the counter had a cigarette dangling from his puffy lips, beetle black eyes scanning the newspaper in his hand. He was brawn as a bear though with a gut of a hog, his head round with unkempt scruff covering his jowly cheeks, greasy black hair fell into his eyes. He looked up when he heard the bell. He made a pleased sound. "Well, if it's not the spiderling." He leaned over the glass countered to look at her, stubbing out his cigarette. "Whatcha bring ol' Yuri today, little spider?"

"Lotsa stuff, Yuri," she said, emptying her pockets. She put the bracelets and watches on the table, followed by the wallets. "How much does that get me today?"

He hummed, taking the items into his massive paw-like hands. She watched him inspect the bracelets and watches, looked through the wallets (pocketing the cash and credit cards for himself and tossing the IDs found within). "Well, I can give you two hundred for the lot of it."

"Two hundred? That watch alone is probably two hundred," she said, pointing to the platinum watch which she was pretty sure was an American Rolex. "Gotta gimme more than that, Yuri."

"Look, little owl," Yuri said, folding his massive hairy arms on the counter top to leer down at her. "I'd be happy to give ya more, but I hafta turn a profit too." He looked to his left and to his right. "But, if you wanna help me out, I know a few people—"

"I don't work with anyone," she said, hands on her hips, "you know that Yuri. Four hundred or nothin'."

"Damn girl," he growled, standing up straighter, his bulk intimidating but she held her ground. "Why are ya doing this? Shouldn't ya be in school or somethin'?"

"I wanna be a ballerina," she said. He laughed, patting his piggish belly. "Don't laugh!" she huffed, hot tears stinging at her eyes. She blinked, stamping the pain and frustration down. "Four hundred," she said, allowing a smell tremble into her voice, dropping her hands from her hips and pulling them close to her chest instead. Sometimes she got people to give her money if she looked pathetic on the street corner. Other times she'll pretend to bump into people and act the innocent scared child lost in a large city. Her grandmother said she was a good actress, her father often shook his head, telling her she would have every man she'd ever meet wrapped tight around her finger if she kept it up. "I… I n-need th-the money, Yuri," she whimpered. "Babushka… she's… she's ill and Papa—"

Yuri sighed, running his massive hand down his scuzzy face. "Alright, alright, quit it with the teary eyes, kid," he said. "I'll give you three-fifty."

"Three seventy-five and not a ruble more," she said. She grabbed the counter's edge and stood on her tiptoes, tongue poking out of her mouth as she worked to get into en pointe. Yuri shook his head. She knew the stories about his quick tempers and quicker fists, but he had a soft spot for her. He wouldn't be willing to haggle and put up with her acting if he didn't. She grinned at him.

"You're damn lucky I have a soft spot for you," he said, taking the items and putting them in a lockbox. He shuffled off into the back, she heard him rummage around for a moment or two before coming out with her money, shoving it into an envelope. "Here." He grabbed her small hand; his hand was warm and sweaty. "Hate to see a bright kid like ya end up in a bad situation. So, promise me, little spider, take this money and put it to good use. Maybe if ya lucky you'll get into the Vaganova Ballet Academy." He grinned, showing off his crooked yellow teeth. "The crème de la crème of Russian ballet schools. Maybe you'll be just like Natalia Makarova. You two share a name."

She pulled her hand free, taking the envelop. "I'll surpass her."

Yuri laughed, slapping the counter. "You got spunk, owl, like that. Get on home, your papa's worried I'm sure."

"Bye Yuri, see ya tomorrow," she said, waving to him as she stuffed the envelop into her inner coat pocket.

"Careful little spider," he said. She flashed him a smile and ran off, taking the alley across the street and the next one, until she made a right and came to the apartment complex. She buzzed herself in and side stepped the suspicious yuck on the floor before climbing up to the third floor. She fished her key from her pocket and let herself in.

It was large as apartments go. Two rooms on either side of the single bathroom, a kitchenette with a stove and oven and sink, a wall closet for storage and the rest was the large open living space. She kicked off her shoes, grimacing at the big toe poking through her sock. Unwinding her scarf from her neck, she pulled off her hat and hung both up, before shucking her coat and pulled out the envelop. "Papa! Papa, I'm home!" she called, walking towards his door. She knocked on his door, he opened it, the phone pressed to his ear.

"Natalia, thank goodness, I'll be out shortly — what? Oh, yes of course sir, my daughter just came… yes, yes—" her father closed the door. She sighed, putting the envelop on the small dinette table.

"Natalia, Natalia, come here, child," her grandmother called. She smiled, skipping into the second room. Pictures hung on the walls, her father and mother in some, her in the more recent ones. Her grandmother in her pilot's uniform from WWII, the 588th together in a group photographs. Shadowboxes with her medals and the Soviet flag. Between the desk and the bed was an old camera reel, the screen on the opposite wall down, no image appeared.

"Watching the newsreels again, Babushka?" she asked, her small fingers rewinding this one. She studied the writing on the empty canister. "The American," she said, tracing the letters. " _The_ American? The one that helped you escaped the Nazis?" she asked. Her grandmother nodded.

"Yes," she said, "the one with the shield. Rewind it, we can catch and I'll tell you about him again."

Natalia grinned, rewinding the newsreel and sticking it back in. She flipped the switch, ducked around it and snuggled against her grandmother's frail body. There was no sound, just moving pictures. Russians trekking through a snow-covered forest with their American allies, hunting for prisoner of war camps, Nazi outposts, and bases belonging to the mysterious and evil group known as Hydra. "It was a cold winter in 1943. Stalin told the Americans that there was Hydra near Russia, so the Americans sent their best weapon," her grandmother said.

"Captain America!" she said in a gleeful whisper, clapping her hands. "The Red Skull feared him!"

"Yes, yes he did. I had done a night raid earlier, I was successful but, on the way back to Russia I was shot down and captured." She gestured to the screen, the base coming into view. The Hydra stormtroopers came out to combat the American and Russian forces. Even though it was black and white, she could see the colors of Captain America's shield, shimmering in the hazy winter sunlight, deflecting the laser blasts that Hydra shot at him. "I was a woman, deemed unsuitable for war and for working on whatever project Hydra was building. He came and saved me and several others from the cages they held us." Her grandmother chuckled. "He tried to protect me, but I saved him when I pulled his gun from his holster and shot a Hydra trooper." Her grandmother got that distant look in her eyes, it happened whenever she talked about Captain America. "He had the most beautiful blue eyes…"

"What was he like?" she asked, watching the newsreel.

"A good man. He got everyone out, made sure the wounded got medical attention, helped those that needed it. He was like from a story, Natalia. The one about the dragon and the poor farmer."

"Oh, that one!" she nodded. "The farmer saves the dragon and the dragon says he'll help him whenever he wants, and the wife keeps making the farmer go back and demand more and more until the farmer decides to stay with the dragon."

"Yes, that's the one." Her grandmother, stroked her hair, watching the newsreel. "I went back with the Russians, he went west, towards Germany and the other remaining Hydra bases" She closed her eyes, hand falling to her chest. "He made all other men seem lesser somehow. He had a good heart, Natalia. A heart too good for the world."

"How could you tell?" she asked, hugging her knees, eyes fixed on the glinting shield. She wondered what happened to Captain America. "Do you know what happened to him?"

"No," her grandmother said. "I don't. Nobody does. And I could tell he had a good heart by his eyes. The eyes, Natalia, are the windows into the soul." She cupped her cheek. "Always remember that my angel."

"Yes, Babushka." The newsreel ended, the screen going black and her mind drifting to scenarios about Captain America's fate. Maybe he and the Red Skull had an epic battle where they both perished. Maybe he's living in America right now, an old man with his wife surrounded by grandchildren.

"Why don't you put in the reel featuring _Swan Lake_ ," her grandmother said. Her eyes grew wide, the grin spreading across her face as she gave an eager nod and began to dig through the movie reels until she found the one with the ballet's name. She checked it, making sure it was rewound, satisfied that it was, she swapped the two out and turned it on. The screen was black for a moment then the white letters appeared: _Leningrad State Choreographic Institute presents_ _Tchaikovsky_ _'s Swan Lake_.

She wished there was sound, so she could hear the music. It was a testament to the dancers and their skill that she could follow the story without the music. She watched the dancers leap and pirouette. The prima ballerina and the premier danseur noble captured the romance between Odette and Siegfried. Her eyes followed the footwork, watching at the ballerino lifted his ballerina up with ease; her spinning about his head. "You could do that," her grandmother whispered, gesturing with her chin to the graceful ballerinas on the screen. "You could be better than that prima ballerina."

"Do you think so?" she asked, watching the prima ballerina dance. The woman on the screen made it look so easy.

"Yes." Her grandmother patted her hand. "You have the grace and poise of a ballerina, Natalia. I know that one day you'll be the best ballerina in the world."

She smiled, watching the rest of the ballet, it finished, and she packed the reel away and tucked her slumbering grandmother. She and her father ate a quiet dinner of borscht and she cleaned the dishes, bathing afterward and went to the small storage closet that was her bedroom. She tugged the string, turning on the naked lightbulb. Pictures of taped to the walls covered the small space, pictures of famous ballerinas from ballet magazines that her father got for her. Her bed was a mattress with a threadbare sheet and a thick quilt and deflated down pillow. Next to the pillow was her doll, buttons for eyes and yarn for hair and an old bit of dress for her tutu. "You ready for bed, princess?" her father asked, she watched him study the ballerinas taped to her wall.

"One day, Papa," she said, "one day I'll be ballerina. And I'll dance for the best ballet company in all of Russia!"

"Of course, you will, princess," Alian said, ruffling her hair. "But first you need to sleep, and please go to school tomorrow."

"I will," she sighed, flopping onto the mattress. "Did you get the envelop?"

"I did," he said, groaning as he lowered himself down her mattress. "Natalia, I know you want to help, but you need to stop… acquiring money in whatever fashion you do."

"But don't we need it? You always say we need more money, that if we don't pay—" her father stopped her with a shake of his head. "Papa."

"You're too Natalia. Too young to worry about this, let me worry. I'm your father. It's my duty to protect you. I promise. I want you to dream. One day, I promise I'll get you to into a ballet academy."

"And I'll be better than Galína Ulánova," she said. "Just watch, I'll be the greatest ballerina ever!" She grinned as her father laughed.

"Go to sleep, my little ballerina," he said, kissing her forehead. She scrambled beneath the covers and he tucked her in. "Sweet dreams Natalia. Dance in your dreams."

"I always do, Papa." She smiled, tucking her doll close. He nodded, closing the door until only a crack remained. She listened as his footsteps faded away, her eyes drooping close.

She didn't go to school like her father asked, he knew she didn't. She always went to the wealthy district in Volgograd to pick the pockets of the businessmen and the lawyers and the twittering wives. If she got to Yuri's pawnshop, the big man would teach her some arithmetic and letters. If she brought in a good haul, he'll even give her a book. It wasn't much of an education, but she could read and write and do basic math. That was good enough to be a dancer anyway. She could write her name at the least. The weeks dragged on, winter settling in like a brooding hen over eggs. Her father moved her mattress into her grandmother's room and she often snuggled against her grandmother for warmth in their cold apartment during the night. The days she didn't go out to pick pockets, she'd tried to mimic the poses in the magazines her father got her, and listen to his frustrated voice shouting to the men that always called him, demanding he come to the office. He'd leave then, when they started demanding. She'd go down to Yuri's for supper.

The first time she did that, he tried to get her to hand over a trinket of value, but his wife threw a fit, and ever since she was welcomed for supper at Yuri's. She was heading home, a cold February night, the snowflakes fat and falling in lazy spirals. The wind could and biting. The lights did little to dispel the wintery shadows, their orange-yellow glows beacons of sanctuary. She hummed a song to herself, trying to dance to the tune as she headed home. "Whoa!" she flailed, slipping on a patch of ice. A strong hand caught her.

"Careful little one," the man said. His black hair slicked back, grey eyes cold but not unkind, a cigarette dangled from his lips, the end an orangey red. "Don't want to slip."

She could tell by how he spoke, the quality of his clothes and the tobacco he smoked that he was rich. His cheeks full and skin a youthful quality to them. She shifted her hand. "Thank you, sir," she said, "I'm going to be a ballerina one day, so I'm always practicing my forms. I'd be unhappy if I broke my ankle." She undid the clasp on his expensive watch. "So, thank you again, catching me."

He gave a hearty laugh, letting her go, his watch slipping into her palm as she did so. She pocketed the watch. "I hope to see you one day on stage, little ballerina." He patted her head and walked towards the darkness. She watched for a few moments, then headed towards home, grinning to herself at the heavy weight of the man's watch in her pocket. She reached the next street lamp, spinning around the pole. "Little girl," the man said, his voice stopping her cold. "I do believe you have something of mine." She could feel him behind her. A shadow that would devour her if she turned around. She should have resisted the urge to take his watch, she should have stayed home and went to bed hungry that night. The hairs on her nape stood up as the man took a step closer and another one appeared at the far end of the street.

She swallowed, turning around to look at the man. He held his cigarette between his middle and index fingers in his outstretched palm. "My watch, Natalia."

Her eyes widen. "H-How do you know my name?" she asked, looking around at the alleyways, looking for the glint of knives in the darkness. Was the man apart of the local mafia? She didn't think so. He was too wealthy to be a member of the local mafia. Not even Yuri had such nice clothes.

The man smiled, reminding her of the devil's grin. "My watch." She dug into her pocket and handed over her watch. "Thank you, now roll up your sleeve" — he tapped her left arm — "this one." She complied, glancing about trying to figure out a way to escape. "Why do you keep looking around?"

"You're going to hurt me, right? You're angry." She gulped several times, refusing to cry in front of this man. This man scared her. "I'm sorry I stole your watch."

"I know you are," he said, "though you didn't answer my question. Why do you keep glancing around?"

"T-Trying to look for an escape," she admitted, watching him puff on his cigarette. Snowflakes landed on her bare skin, causing her skin to pimple.

"Tell me, Natalia," the man said, "what do you see?"

"Why do you want to know? Aren't you going to hand me over to the police?" she didn't understand what was going on. He didn't seem angry that she stole his watch, his questions were strange, and she just wanted to go home. She glanced around again. "Well?"

"If I pull my wrist hard enough, I'll be free, cause you aren't holding me that tightly. There's a man behind me by the next lamp post and I think there is one in the alleyway next to us, in the thicker shadows. Nobody to my right though, which suggests that if you did want me to escape you're trying to funnel me into a trap or you'll really let me go."

He blew smoke in her face. She coughed, waving her hand back and forth to clear the silvery coils. "I need to know how to escape after I get my score, to know if there are any police around or people with sharp eyes."

"Do you have sharp eyes?" He tapped the ash off his cigarette.

"Not sharp enough," she said. "But they'll get sharper." The answer satisfied him. He pressed the hot cherry of his cigarette to the skin of her inner arm, just above the crook of her elbow. She sucked in a breath, biting her tongue to prevent the scream. Blinking her eyes, she held her breath until he pulled the cigarette away from her arm, once he did so, she let out a shaky breath, staring at the angry blistering red circle on her arm. She wanted to cry but refused even though the tears stung at the corners of her eyes.

"Brave," he said as he scooped up some clean snow and pressed it against the burn. "And strong. This will remind you to make sure your eyes get sharper." He put her right hand over the snow. "Run along home Natalia, and I hope you'll become a ballerina one day." He slipped into the shadows of the alley before she fine her voice. She ran home.

That night she closed the door to her grandmother's room for the night. Snuggled up against the old woman she looked at the burn. She had washed it but a bit of soothing lotion on it. The strange encounter with the man kept rattling around in her head: why was she looking around, how did he know her name, why did he burn her arm? "Weird," she muttered and went to sleep.

The next day her father went to the office but never came home. "Alian! Alian, where are you? Alian!" her grandmother called. Natalia sighed, going to get whatever her grandmother wanted. She ate leftovers for dinner. The next morning her father didn't come home. Worry itched at the back of her mind, like a mouse chewing through a book.

"He'll be home," she told her grandmother that afternoon. "I'm going to go get some food." She stood up and went into her father's office, finding where he kept the money she earned from pickpocketing and took a few rubles. She went to the corner store and got some canned food and went home. By the fifth day, she was too scared to leave the apartment. Her father had yet to show and her grandmother began to cough wetly. She took comfort in watching the newsreels of the war.

Once more, Captain America's shield glinted across the screen in her grandmother's room, defeated the Hydra troopers. "Captain America," she whispered, her voice mingling with her grandmother's snores. "If you're really real… can you come and take me to America? I think my papa's gone." She hugged her knees, watching as the legendary super soldier with a golden heart fight his way through his enemies to the base where he'd rescue her grandmother and hundreds of others. "You can be a ballerina in America, right?"

Her grandmother coughed in her sleep, the sound rough and wet. Booming knocks on the door echoed throughout the small apartment. "Mikhail? Mikhail?" her grandmother called, reaching a gnarled withered hand towards the door. She looked over at the door, fear coiling in her gut. She got up. "Mikhail!"

"Shush, Babushka," she hissed, tugging the blankets up around her grandmother's chin. "Grandpapa is gone. It's probably Sergei, Papa's friend from work."

Her grandmother moaned, delirious with her fever. "Mikhail, where's our son?" she asked, the knocks grew louder.

"Open up! Olga Romanova, open up!" a man shouted, his voice deep and commanding. "I will kick this door down. Olga Romanova!" he pounded on the door. The knocking stopped. Frowning, she inched closer to the door, unsure what was going on. There was a crash, the splintering of wood, she screamed yanking the door close. "The girl's here, get the girl, Comrade Petrovich said she is to be unharmed."

"And the old woman?" another voice asked. She didn't hear the answer. She shook as she pressed herself against the door. Her mind was racing, wondering who these men were.

No, they are KGB, but… Papa said the new government got rid of the KGB… right? She screamed when the door shuddered, her small weight useless in holding back the man. Still she tried, pressing with all her might against the door. The man, stronger, won out and she half scrambled half thrown herself towards her grandmother, covering the old woman with her small body.

"C'mere girl," the man said, grabbing her by the shoulder. She screamed, hitting his hand. "Heh, feisty one. Comrade Petrovich will have fun breaking you."

"Let me go!" she shouted. "Let me go!" the man hauled her out of the room. "Let me go!" she cried again, and he covered her mouth with his hand. She bit his hand. He yelped, dropping her and she bolted towards her grandmother's room.

"No you don't," he growled, snagging her by the wrist. "I don't want Comrade Petrovich angry with me, so make this easy on yourself girl, and come with me."

"No, let me go! Let me go!" she screamed, pulling against his iron grip. She reached for the door. "Babushka!" she shouted as the man pulled her closer to him and wrapped his other arm around her chest. She bucked and arched her back, screaming and shouting. "Babushka! Babushka!" Though she knew the neighbours could hear her shrieks and cries, they knew better than to get involved when the KGB came knocking. "Babushka!"

"Quiet girl" the KGB agent hissed into her ear. "Comrade Petrovich told me not to hurt you, but I will to keep you quiet."

She shook; the man's breath stank of vodka and garlic. She peeked over his shoulder, hoping to see that red-white-and-blue shield but she didn't and the realization hurt too much for her to struggle further. Captain America was dead (or not real). He didn't come and save her like he did her grandmother all those years ago. She didn't know why the KGB had come to her home, they probably took her father away too. Maybe they discovered her mother had defected when she was a baby. Whatever the reason, the KGB wanted to take her away, and the KGB always got what they wanted. "Babushka…"

"You aren't gonna scream, are you? You're gonna come quietly?" he asked. She nodded. "Good." He looked up as his partner came out of her grandmother's room. "Well?"

"She sleeps," he said. Natalia gave a strangle cry, tears trickling down her cheeks. The man that held her put her down and took her hand.

"Come girl," he said. She gave a mute nod, wiping her tears. He paused long enough for let her put her coat and boots on. He led her down to the entrance and stopped at the door. Nobody was around, everyone safe behind their doors, refusing to see or hear what was going on. The man pulled out a black hood and shoved her head into it. "Don't take it off." He growled, and she gave a mute nod. "Good." He scooped her up and took her away from the only home she ever knew.

When the hood came off she was in a plush room. Bookcases lined the wall, reaching from floor to ceiling. A large mahogany desk sat in the center, beige carpet beneath her feet. The man who's watch she tried to steal sat behind the desk and at his side stood a thin woman with ice cold eyes, her silvery brown hair pulled back in a tight bun that sat atop her head. Her pale skin stretched tight across her face, crows' feet at the corner of her eyes. "Is this the girl?" she asked.

Natalia swallowed.

"Yes," the man said. "Introduce yourself, child." She licked her lips. "I'll go first. I'm Ivan Petrovich and this is Madame B."

"Hello."

"Name girl," Madame B said, narrowing her eyes.

She glanced around, noting that the room had no windows and one door guarded by two KGB agents. "Natalia Alianovna Romanova."

"Take your coat off, Natalia and your shoes," Madame B said. She did. "Stand up." She did that too, holding her arms loose at her sides. The woman came over to her, inspecting her mouth and teeth, her eyes and legs. She pulled back the waistband of her pants and peeked down there. She grunted, let go and checked her ears and hair. She poked and prodded, lifting up her foot and then the other. "She'll do."

"Of course, she will. She may actually make it. This one has a fire, B. I can tell." Ivan said, taking a drag on his cigarette. "Tell me Natalia." He leaned forward. "Do you want to be a ballerina?"

"Yes," she said. "What is this place?" she yelped when Madame B smacked her across her face.

"Do not speak unless spoken to," she snapped.

"B," Ivan chided. Natalia rubbed her cheek, not liking the indulgent smile Ivan gave her. "I'll answer." He took another drag on his cigarette. "This, Natalia, is my ballet academy. I call it the Red Room. It is the finest ballet academy in the world."

"A ballet academy needs guards?" she asked, this time she ducked Madame B's strike. She felt pleased when Ivan gave an amused chuckle. He pushed back his chair as he stood and came over to her.

"I told you she has fire, B." He took a drag on his cigarette and then stubbed it out. "My ballet academy does," he said, coming over to her and kneeling in front of her. "Because at my ballet academy, my girls are trained by the best with methods that… the other schools would frown upon. But don't worry Natalia. Soon you'll be dancing on the world stage. What's your favorite ballet?"

She hesitated, realizing that this seemed too good to be true. Still, her father told her never to look a gift horse in the mouth. " _Swan Lake_ ," she said, "I want to dance Odette's part."

"And you will!" Ivan put his hands on her biceps and gave he a little a shake, a fatherly smile on his face. "You will, and you'll dance so many other parts. Tell me Natalia, do you want to be apart my academy?"

She bit her lip, thinking it over. She didn't have anywhere else to go, her father was gone and her grandmother dead. No Captain America was going to save her if this was a trap. If this was a trap, Ivan had laid it well. She had no choice but to accept, for she had a feeling he'd be unhappy if she said no. "Yes," she said, her voice soft. "I accept your offer."

"Then welcome, Natalia. Welcome to the Red Room."

* * *

 **I uh… don't really have anything to say here. The next chapter will continue with Natasha's retelling of her Red Room days. I will warn you that what I have planned for the next chapter will be… dark. So if you have a weak constitution, leave. I may actually bump the rating up on AO3 because of what I have planned.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**


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